MSPA Fanfiction IV

[mutecebu]

That was great. I look forward to more of these.

Also, here's a thing.

Royal Duties

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Karkat starred at the body, breathing through his mouth; the smell was too much for him. It was a stupid idea, really. Jack had already destroyed Prospit, and the chances that her dreamself still existed was too slim to even guess at.

But while there was still a chance, he owed it to her to try.

Getting down on his knees, he cradled her body, trying not to look at the gaping hole through her torso. Nothing could block out the squelching noises, or stench of entrails and blood, or the lukewarm feel of a cooling body. Placing one hand behind her head, Karkat tilted her head up, a thin line of green blood began to trail from the corner of her mouth, and he spent several seconds debating whether he should go through with this. He shuddered when he placed his hand down next to her to stabilize himself, and pulled it away, leaving a hand-print in the slowly growing pool of blood. He looked at the stain on his hand before a grim determination set in, and he lowered his hand back down.

Pausing to take a deep breath, Karkat leaned in quickly and kissed her, suppressing the urge to gag, the taste fouling his mouth. He wondered what exactly he was supposed to be doing; the technical details of reviving someone via a kiss on the lips was something he had never bothered to learn. Was there some sort of technique he was supposed to be doing, some sort of incantation? Maybe he should have payed more attention when Feferi revived Sollux, then he wouldn't be sitting here looking like some sort of deranged pervert.

After a solid minute of pressing warm lips to cold, Karkat pulled back with a gasp, taking air in great gulps. He looked back down at Kanaya and waited for something to happen.

Nothing happened. Kanaya continued to be cold and dead.

"No shit, fuckass. It's the dreamself that revives, not the corpse."

Karkat chided himself, shaking his head.

"Kan...Kanaya. I know you can't hear me, but...please, wake up. Gamzee's gone insane, and everything's going to shit. C'mon, I can't deal with all this without you."

Blots of watery bright-red started to fall on Kanaya's face, streaming down to mix with jade green.

"It doesn't matter that Prospit's been blown up, that doesn't mean you were there when it happened...so just, please..."

Karkat lowered his head until his hair just barely brushed her forehead.

"...please, wake up."

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When the Prince abdicates his throne, it is up to the Knight to take on his duties.

AN

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why did i write this

I liked it! Sad but sweet, and didn't befoul the moment with anything so pedestrian as plot.

[lantadyme]

In which I try to acknowledge Kanaya's death in a way that is not 'sobbing like a wriggler'.

And fail.

Bearer

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1.

You study history. Names and dates and battles stick to you like blood does to skin, on land, drying to a lace of dust after an hour of brilliance. On land you spend days- there are days, on land- and you spend days at a time reading the stones of conquerors until you crackle when you walk from crusted names.

And when days is over however many days that takes, you swim. That is to say, you forget. The individuals and their numbered deaths.

Because you study history, but you are interested in what is left of history after truth’s gore washes away. The clean bones of a good story: that’s what you like to hold, after the fact, in the wet silence of your head.

2.

So this is what you do.

You keep the vertebrae of each glorious victory, stringing them together into new arcs; and you keep the players, recurrent, their roles unchanging, war by war. Not those who were key only by chance; not those who simply received the right weapon at the right time, fools uplifted by chance and powers beyond their ken. No, you gather those who rise every time, of their own strength, just the same under their changing names. You distill a thousand princes to a single faceless figure, his outline nebulous but his core burning bright and true, and then you proceed to admire him immensely, and wonder if you look like him when you glower; forgetting, for a moment, that he has no one pair of eyes with which to compare your own.

As clear or clearer is the memory of the Empress he serves. It doesn’t matter which of the Empresses, because they’re all the same, really, the richness of their veins always telling true

(sometimes it catches you by the throat how royal she is. Royal, and alive, and near: perhaps even now breathing water you exhaled into legendary lungs)

and whether she is the first or the eleven-hundredth of the line, she is high and fine, stern and playful by turns, and though she gives the hero impossible tasks, she waits for him, after. She waits while he fills all the sixteen seas with blood, patiently: her gaze lingering and warm through the glass of her goggles.

From the details remaining about the various trolls who have unsuccessfully attempted to win the fin of an Empress in ages past, you piece together the rival, of the same caste as the hero and his match in all respects but one

(even if in the vividest of your dreams you cut him and he bleeds the wrong hue, bleeds something from directly across the wheel from what is proper, historical, right, and stares up at you with strange eyes)

And he comes into the tail with red hopes but soon finds enmity more satisfying than pity.

The other quadrants are more difficult. Not for him, never for him, great generals don’t have to scrounge to round out their perfect squares, but for you, because conciliation, for you, has only ever come cased in bitterness, like the living meat of a shellbeast in your mouth, with its residue of mucus over muscle.

3.

You meet Vris.

She’s beautiful and irritating and not really worthy of pitched affection from anyone, let alone you, but when she tosses her hair and laughs and beats you to the end you want to dig webbed fingers into her throat, which counts for something. And you are five sweeps old and you can’t expect the to find your soul mate immediately, and- in the meantime her glittering compound glances fill a hole in your bladder-based aquatic expanding and collapsing vascular system that you hadn’t known was there.

That’s worth something. It has to be.

“8mporaaaaaaaa,” she calls you, voice reaching tremulously up past the register of the storm that has both your ships ashudder. “Come and get me,” she types, lighting up your laptop when she’s only a few yards away, her other hand rattling with dice in motion.

You never do.

You worry about that: about why, when you’ve decided to make the best of this unsatisfactory and, if you are honest with yourself, possibly unwilling kismesis, you find yourself unable to really carry it through. Why you find yourself with your back still to the rail, until she sighs and lowers her fist and goes to slaughter children. The military leader you learned so thoroughly by reading and forgetting and fantasizing would never hesitate to grapple with his true-hated foe, you know.

4.

You begin to get an inkling, though, when she introduces you to Kan.

Kan speaks coolly, her elegant diction like the depths of water, and when she talks to you, slow and measured and precise, you can forgive yourself for not following Vris’ swagger down to the piled victims at once. You can forgive yourself for grimacing a little at Vris’ gruesome displays. And while you still cannot conceive of a moirail for your model, your perfect troll, without feeling bile rise in your throat, you can at last picture the dusky balance he engages in with an undeserving but ambitious antagonist; the artful distance maintained between them by a troll with blood like the surface of the sea on a stormy day.

You wish you knew what she looked like. Land dweller, and diurnal at that: exotic almost beyond imagining. You picture someone a little like Vris, but with a more restrained smile and darker skin through which the verdancy of her veins shows only in moments of great emotion, and then fleetingly, like something vivid stirring in the murk of the ocean floor. It doesn’t satisfy you.

Funny how the faces you want most, to hang on your pure bare fiction and admire, are most obscured. And how the faces you know best never look right.

(She says you weary her; she says you do it on porpoise. She laughs.)

5.

The game happens, in a sudden blossoming of dream and nightmare. You knew it was coming: Kan told you. Not all at once, but over seasons, piece by piece until you could fill in the rest yourself.

And you do. You think and think and think until everything is filled in (except the quadrant that really is filled, and how you wish it weren’t) and you just know that this is going to be perfect.

She gets you in. It feels, unmistakably, like history: the moment when the jug of water breaks expanding to a thing with the weight and solidity of years. The moment where the world tilts, like land is sea and a wrecked ship can heal.

Except-

6.

You get your wishes.

Alone, then, you have time to construct ever more elaborate scenarios for your little cast of movers and shakers. When your arms are shuddering from sustained fire, your thoughts are all of them. And because the Empress and the Rival hurt too much to consider (your face still stung from where his fucking mutant eyes dared to lash out, the beams’ overlap so close to her signature Tyrian that watching, your teeth grind down like pearls in reverse, pulled back to their beginnings) you devote loving thought to mounded ash and buried heat. In your mind’s eye, Kan dances, long hips twisting, and the hero and the object of his petty hate are silenced, standing, watching, tolerance made flesh.

You don’t begrudge her never coming to see you, alone of the others. An austispice so perfect shouldn’t be risked on angels.

But when you’ve found a wall high enough to hide behind and observe, for a little, the crowded raging skies, you think she’d have their grace and none of their violence, and her arms would spread like wings to shield hate from hate. And the next time you go out into the fray, you fire a little harder, for what they are and what they’re not.

7.

All of the wishes. All of them.

The battlefield, and you see her, know her instantly, her sign’s shade dragging your eye like a beacon. She does not look anything like Vris, as it turns out.

“Hi,” she says, a flicker of tooth in her small smile.

You say nothing. You can’t speak for happiness. It might not be official, still, but- she fights between you and another, Sollux and Vriska and briefly, terrifyingly, Gamzee, and throughout you are aflame with joy. Drowning in its heat.

It gives way to melancholy when you’re hurled into the Veil with the rest, when you see everything go wrong. A spark remains.

8.

The lighting aboard the asteroid is poor, with none of the poetry of sun in shallow water or of the unending brilliance in your Land, but she wears it well, you think giddily; as well or better than her skirts. The gentle gradation of shadow, which flattens the others and sucks life from their expressions, makes her look calm and wise.

Now, you think. Now. Here, at the end, where desperation illuminates necessity. She’ll do it of her own accord, seal the deal without more than one thought. All she needs is a little push.

You show her Lalonde’s work. You smolder like the best ocean vents. You say:

“We’re goin’ to need more wands.”

Her eyes slide toward you, a gold glimmer under lashes like kelp.

You wait. This is it. She’s going to step in. You have it all worked out, now. Vris was a conflict of romantic interests, and Sollux won’t ever reciprocate for long enough to make the need convincing, the yellow-livered little sponge that he is, but there are no such problems with Rose human. Kan will see that as clearly as you have, and she’ll say-

9.

“Okay,” she says.

10.

No.

No, that’s not how it goes.

“What?” you say.

“Okay,” she says (again), giving you a strange look. “I’ll make you a wand. You can use it to escalate these ongoing tensions with Rose. I’ll even pass on the news to her, if you like, since you no longer have use of a computer.”

You say nothing.

She takes you down to the alchemiter, and after a little fussing, during which you can only stare, numbly, at her narrow back, she produces a wand. You hardly give it a glance. You hear nothing, while she explains its functions to you, cool and careful and uncaring about you or Rose or, you have to assume, fucking anything.

When she presses it into your hand there are no fireworks: no special feeling to tell you that this is destiny, and history, and here. It’s ivory, smooth as her voice in your palm, and when you clench your fingers the carvings on its side bite into skin, like what she was actually saying, all along.

11.

But destiny, sometimes, happens by degrees. It was never holding the wand that was supposed to give you a sense of recognition. It’s not a rifle: the mechanism isn’t attached to its slim belly. There’s no brushed steel or oiled wood to sing of power to his fingertips. Only bone.

When you use it, though. When you follow her directions (which were not, could never really have been, commands).

Then light expands in interlinked globes from both ends, and you can feel it pushing through you even as you see it coiling out into the air; you can feel it. You are abrim with light, light trapped and knotted up in your volume like light in open sea, bent on itself to form an old, almost-forgotten design. Kan smiles, restrainedly, at your elbow, and doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t wrap a hand around your wrist. Doesn’t stop you from stalking away, prize raised.

To hell with romance, you think. With myth. History is history. Here and now you can do anything.

You can feel them, inside you: the waiting archetypes, the triumphs of your ancestors, polished to new brightness. Victory foreseen will be your backbone; pride remembered fanning out to push against curve of your ribs.

(And if, later, after almost everything-

-after purple thick and fast, because she wasn’t the Empress of your imagining, she was a dead end, a child without judgment, without heart-

-and you saw to that, didn’t you-

you saw strong black-tipped fingers tighten around a white lipstick case, and a tentacle of fluid jade move under stone, and wanted, in your bones, your real bones still there beneath calcified memory, for those same greenish fingers to tighten around your wrist-

-to restrain you, to dilute your hate as the sea does blood-

-well. There was a science to it: that was all. You master it soon enough.)

Augh, this is so good. So good. I am such a sucker for a cyclic ending like that, wrapping the middle of the story up in bookends that point back to each other perfectly. So much beautiful imagery in your language and I love the flow of the prose, even if it does trip over itself on occasion as Kass has pointed out. Very nice stuff, man.

[Domoz]

Whelp

Breaking the rules
1/?

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For as long as you can remember, you've lived by a set of rules.
You and everyone else always followed those rules unspoken. Never antagonize an imperial drone. Stay inside your hive when it's light out, simple stuff; but you had your own rules.
Written out on paper, nice and structured. Over many sweeps, you slowly added to your list. You always kept it with you, adding to it whenever you got the chance.
You haven't looked at it much lately. Mostly because you wrote the thing, and at this point know it by heart.
Why, then are you breaking the rules?

1-NO CRYING- It's a useless waste of time and energy

And yet for some reason you've got tears streaming from your eyes, whitch makes it kind of hard to obey the second rule...

2- ALWAYS PAY ATTENTION- you'll be dead if you don't

But everything is so blurry, you don't notice the corpse on the floor until you almost trip over it. Olive green blood pooled out all over the floor, you wonder how, since you certainly didn't do it.
You step over the body and wipe your eyes dry.
You can at least follow you're third rule, which is to say:

3-KEEP TO YOUR WORD- be trustworthy if nothing else

And you guess you're not really trustworthy at all anymore, although to be fair you've never outright lied to anybody.
And even though everyone you've told what you're going to do is dead, you still keep at it. After all, if you're not true to yourself, then what is there?

A/N

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I tried to keep the character as vague as possible, but I guess I kind of failed at the end, there.

Why do I even keep writing this guy? I'm not very good at it :T

[DJ-P0N3]

I would like to thank Katrika and WhichDockter for this.
It is a collaborative TRIFECTA

Content Removed by Mod - Little too violent, little too sensual. If your fic is going to venture into such violent territory, please run it by a mod first!

[crash826]

I would like to thank Katrika and WhichDockter for this.
It is a collaborative TRIFECTA

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*head implodes from pressure of awesome*
Please let there be a sequel to this

[morpheoMancer]

I would like to thank Katrika and WhichDockter for this.
It is a collaborative TRIFECTA

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This was... highly disturbing...
*clutches knees and shakes involuntarily*

[morpheoMancer]

edit:doublepost

[Twigwise]

I would like to thank Katrika and WhichDockter for this.
It is a collaborative TRIFECTA

Content Removed by Mod

I don't think there's a word in the English language for how good that was. Terrifying, but good. Like, giving me the chills and making me leave the light on in the hallway but giddy. >:0)

Gamzee rather reminded me of Heath Ledger's Joker in this one. Very scary~

EDIT: 0.0 it was so KABLAM it got pulled. Unexpected!

[mythmonster2]

Hmmm, first time I've seen something before it got pulled. Wait no, I also saw that "bluh bluh huge tits" picture in fanart once... Post a link to some website, immediately. It deserves to be read!

[Kassiopeia]

Aw, I kinda liked it, it was kind of extravagantly disturbing - in a good way. But I can see why they took it down. OH WELL.

[DJ-P0N3]

WAIT GUYS
GOOD NEWS
I HAVE IT
I LOVE YOU LEXXY

RIGHT HERE
I WILL PUT THIS AND ALL MY OTHER FANFICS ON A03 WHICH I HAVE NOW SIGNED UP FOR
SINCE I AM SINKING DEEPER INTO DARK!FIC AND SAD!FIC

ALL MY LOVE GOES OUT TO LEXXY.

[Lexxy]

Make sure to save your fics off-forum while you write them guys! I always copy-paste them into notepad if I have to take one down just in case, but you never know when the forum will hiccup and devour all your hard work! Even if you have to write it in notepad or word pad it's better than nothing. Google Documents is also an excellent option

[mythmonster2]

Heck, writing it in Word then copy-pasting it works wonders, even adding a spellchecker if your browser doesn't have it. Though it is annoying when it starts auto"correcting" the quirks. But it's nice to have backups of all your works, if only for nostalgic purposes when you look back on your first fics.

[DJ-P0N3]

I would have saved this, but it was made in typewithme, so it just slipped my mind to.
Well, don't expect any fanfic from me for a while.
Unfortunately my A03 won't be up till Feb 1st or around then.
So....
...fudge.

[Miss Prince]

Okay, first ever actual contribution to the art forum. This was inspired in part by skeptic's Aradia/Kanaya picture and is based heavily on Rebbe's fic Camaraderie.

This is part one of god knows how many because I'm not really sure where this is going yet. It's also untitled for the moment. And it may undergo editing in the future because I really need to reread the Intermission.

So, uh, enjoy?

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"I'm having the boys over for poker tonight," you tell your daughter. "So scram for a few hours, would ya?"

She's already moving before you start the second sentence, completely unfazed. That's just how your little girl is: nothing gets under her skin. You like that about her; it means the two of you get along fine, no arguments, no misunderstandings. It's been a pretty easy ride, all things considered, and you're thankful for that.

She looks dapper in her coat and hat, hand poised on the doorknob. You approve. "See you later, Daddy," she tells you, and you almost manage not to twitch when she calls you that. You'd think after this long you'd be used to it, but your lip curls for an instant anyway. It doesn't matter; she's already out the door.

Slick arrives first, and Deuce and Boxcars not long after, and you settle in around the table for a gentleman's game. You're pretty sure Deuce has never entirely understood how poker works, and while once in a while he cruises through on uncanny luck, tonight is not his night. He's completely tapped early on in the evening. Slick starts off with a few good hands, but then things turn sour and his anger gets the better of him, and from then on you can read him like a book. He hangs on for a while out of sheer single-minded stubbornness -- and a willingness to keep reaching into his pocketbook -- but eventually he's got nothing left to give and he bows out less than graciously, muttering under his breath and glaring at you murderously. Boxcars may be the muscle of the crew, but he's got a pretty good mind and a stone face at the table, and in the end the two of you pretty much split the pot, though you note with satisfaction that you come out just slightly ahead of him for the evening.

So you're in a pretty good mood when Aradia comes home, an hour or so after the boys leave.

"How was your night? Where'd you run off to?" you ask her. Normally you wouldn't ask, wouldn't care -- honestly, you still don't right now. But you're a richer man in a good mood, and you want to share it, and that's how it all starts.

"Alright. Out with a friend," she replies.

You grunt in reply. Out with a friend, fair enough.

You stop.

"…You don't have any friends," you say suspiciously. Maybe it sounds cold, but it's true: your daughter's a loner. In all the years she's lived with you, you've never heard that phrase come out of her mouth before. Something is not right here.

Aradia simply shrugs and heads to her room. You think about pressing her further, but you decide against it. You've learned it's always better to have a cool head and some solid information before you start asking questions, so you let her go and decide to sleep on this little revelation.

Over the next couple of days you watch her as much as possible, out of the corner of your eye. None of your daughter's actions are out of the ordinary; she doesn't look like she's hiding anything. But you do notice a thing or two, like the way her suits are always pressed and perfect, her hair always neat and tidy. Normally you'd have to command her to take care of the way she looks, but you haven't done that in… how long has it been? A month?

You're definitely suspicious now.

On the third night after your poker game Aradia tells you she's going out for the evening.

"Where to?" you ask.

She shrugs. "I don't know yet. Just out with a friend."

You nod in acknowledgement. Three minutes after the door closes, you follow her.

It's not that you don't trust her. You don't trust anyone much, but you come the closest to it with your little girl. She's a good kid, and you know she'd tell you anything you wanted to know if you asked. Thing is, you don't think she'd have much to tell you. She has a weird way with people. Hell, if she's okay with you, what other kinds of shady characters might she be okay with? You've done what you can to raise her right, but social interaction beyond the two of you just never came up that often. You're looking out for her, in your own way.

Your own way happens to be hopping in your sleek black sedan and following your daughter down the lamp-lit streets, always staying a block or so behind and cutting into the shadows where you can, pool cue a comforting presence in the backseat, ready for any trouble that might arise. You know, like any good father would.

Eventually your daughter stops at a house and knocks on the door, which is answered promptly. You tense, but she doesn't go inside. Instead, another figure joins her. You can't see clearly enough at this distance, and it's too early to blow your cover, so you keep following.

Eventually they lead you to the movie theater, where there's a line-up outside and a convenient dark alley you can park yourself in and watch.

The person accompanying your daughter turns out to be a young troll woman about Aradia's age. Her hair is short but stylish, and her dress is a bit on the daring side fashion-wise but immaculate and expertly tailored, and she carries the look with easy grace. You feel a grudging sense of approval.

They're talking. You can't hear them and you've never been too good at reading lips, so it's more than a little frustrating. You're trying to figure out a way to get closer when all of a sudden it becomes irrelevant, because the troll girl reaches out to take Aradia's hand, just for a moment, and there's an expression on your little girl's face you've never seen there before (mostly because up until now she's really just had the one); there's a subtle light in her eyes the average person wouldn't even notice, but you've known her long enough you could never miss it.

Shit.

Fuck fuck fuck shit shit shit.

You pull out of the alley like hell's on your heels, only just barely keeping the tires from squealing as you take the corner. You've seen enough. You need time to deal with this little revelation and all the disaster it'll bring.

Your little girl's in love.

God fucking dammit.

[WhichDockter]

The following is a silly collaborative effort between myself, MayorSillyBiscuits, MrTeebert, and a little bit from Douhneill. It is somewhat based on this. We have all the silly. All of it.

The Wedding

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Bec Noir stood waiting at the altar. He was standing before Hearts Boxcars, who was itching to get this show on the road. The ring bearer was also getting anxious. In the corner of his eye he saw her, and his heart began to race.

Ms. Paint came gliding down the aisle, dressed in a beautiful white gown. She smiled, radiant. She had been waiting for this day for a very, very long time. She had lived through the destruction of Prospit, through living with that crazy guy and painting his entire fucking mansion green, just for this. The day she would become Mrs. Paint-Noir.

Bec Noir couldn't be any more excited. The tuxedo he wore had been donned with a single flower, elegantly painted on by Ms. Paint herself. He had recieved it from her on their first date, in which he had given her his heart. He checked his breath briefly, not wanting to ruin their first kiss as a married couple.

Breathlessly Ms. Paint arrived at the altar, the wedding processional music slowing to a halt. A slight blush graced her carapace as she found herself standing face to face with the man she loved. Gripping her lovely boquet of flowers, she waited for Hearts Boxcars to begin the vows.

"Dearly beloved," he growled, "We are gathered here today to bring these oafs together so they can go ahead and kiss already."

Ms. Paint elegantly cleared her throat. "Aren't there supposed to be 'I do's'? Or something like 'speak now or forever hold your peace', or something."

"Fine. Are there any bozos here who have the bright idea to object to this unio-"

The church doors burst open, and a lone figure, garbed in a sweet t-shirt that exuded all kinds of sepulchritude and a single troll horn, charged down the aisle. Almost no one saw the Scorpio sign floating on Hussie's forehead. Those that did did not understand the significance. It was just a thing that happened to be there.

"I objeeeeeeeeeeect!" Andrew Hussie shouted as he raced towards the soon-to-be-wed couple.

Bec Noir glared at Hussie. That man had returned to ruin everything he held dear and he would not allow it. He had fallen in love with Ms. Paint long before Hussie did. He drew the sword from his chest and shouted angrily.

"HUSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSIE!"

Hussie skidded to a halt. He took a few deep breaths, then yelled, "You think you can actually threaten me, Noir? I AM YOUR GOD."

There was a great green flash. Standing between the two suitors was the best man, Problem Sleuth. He had just activated Sepulchritude.

"Gentlemen, this is no time for fighting. This is a time of celebration and sloppy makeouts."

"But Problem Sleuth! This beast is trying to steal my one true love from me! You cannot expect a man to sit back and simply let that happen!"

"YOUR TRUE LOVE?! SHE HAS BEEN MINE SINCE I FIRST LAID MY EYE ON HER."

Ms. Paint looked blankly at Hussie, her beady eyes clouding over with sadness and pity.

"I'm sorry, Andrew," she said softly, "But your Ms. Paint is in another castle."

Tears formed in Andrew's eyes. "But...but...I love you..." He fell to his knees, clutching his face in his hands. Great sobs wracked his body.

Bec Noir laughed at Andrew's pain, there was nothing about this human sympathy Bec Noir posessed, he merely loved Ms. Paint, and it was simple as that.

"...Right," Hearts Boxcars said. "Any other objections? No?" He glared at the congregation. "Good. Now, do you, Bec Noir, yaddayaddayadda, want to kiss the girl?"

Bec Noir nodded, he wrapped an arm around Ms. Paint's waist and held her in for a sweet embrace. He retrieved the ring from Clubs Deuce, the ring he had painstakingly plundered from a worthless vigilante he had found on an empty planet. With one tender, loving gesture, he placed it on Ms. Paint's finger.

Hearts Boxcars ignored the dramatic ring-induced transformation and continued his spiel, "You may now kiss the bride. Seriously. Kiss the girl. You kiss her right this instant."

And then Bec Noir kissed the girl.

AND ALL WAS RIGHT WITH THE WORLD. THE END.

[Metaflare]

Okay, first ever actual contribution to the art forum. This was inspired in part by skeptic's Aradia/Kanaya picture and is based heavily on Rebbe's fic Camaraderie.

This is part one of god knows how many because I'm not really sure where this is going yet. It's also untitled for the moment. And it may undergo editing in the future because I really need to reread the Intermission.

So, uh, enjoy?

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hide spoiler

"I'm having the boys over for poker tonight," you tell your daughter. "So scram for a few hours, would ya?"

She's already moving before you start the second sentence, completely unfazed. That's just how your little girl is: nothing gets under her skin. You like that about her; it means the two of you get along fine, no arguments, no misunderstandings. It's been a pretty easy ride, all things considered, and you're thankful for that.

She looks dapper in her coat and hat, hand poised on the doorknob. You approve. "See you later, Daddy," she tells you, and you almost manage not to twitch when she calls you that. You'd think after this long you'd be used to it, but your lip curls for an instant anyway. It doesn't matter; she's already out the door.

Slick arrives first, and Deuce and Boxcars not long after, and you settle in around the table for a gentleman's game. You're pretty sure Deuce has never entirely understood how poker works, and while once in a while he cruises through on uncanny luck, tonight is not his night. He's completely tapped early on in the evening. Slick starts off with a few good hands, but then things turn sour and his anger gets the better of him, and from then on you can read him like a book. He hangs on for a while out of sheer single-minded stubbornness -- and a willingness to keep reaching into his pocketbook -- but eventually he's got nothing left to give and he bows out less than graciously, muttering under his breath and glaring at you murderously. Boxcars may be the muscle of the crew, but he's got a pretty good mind and a stone face at the table, and in the end the two of you pretty much split the pot, though you note with satisfaction that you come out just slightly ahead of him for the evening.

So you're in a pretty good mood when Aradia comes home, an hour or so after the boys leave.

"How was your night? Where'd you run off to?" you ask her. Normally you wouldn't ask, wouldn't care -- honestly, you still don't right now. But you're a richer man in a good mood, and you want to share it, and that's how it all starts.

"Alright. Out with a friend," she replies.

You grunt in reply. Out with a friend, fair enough.

You stop.

"…You don't have any friends," you say suspiciously. Maybe it sounds cold, but it's true: your daughter's a loner. In all the years she's lived with you, you've never heard that phrase come out of her mouth before. Something is not right here.

Aradia simply shrugs and heads to her room. You think about pressing her further, but you decide against it. You've learned it's always better to have a cool head and some solid information before you start asking questions, so you let her go and decide to sleep on this little revelation.

Over the next couple of days you watch her as much as possible, out of the corner of your eye. None of your daughter's actions are out of the ordinary; she doesn't look like she's hiding anything. But you do notice a thing or two, like the way her suits are always pressed and perfect, her hair always neat and tidy. Normally you'd have to command her to take care of the way she looks, but you haven't done that in… how long has it been? A month?

You're definitely suspicious now.

On the third night after your poker game Aradia tells you she's going out for the evening.

"Where to?" you ask.

She shrugs. "I don't know yet. Just out with a friend."

You nod in acknowledgement. Three minutes after the door closes, you follow her.

It's not that you don't trust her. You don't trust anyone much, but you come the closest to it with your little girl. She's a good kid, and you know she'd tell you anything you wanted to know if you asked. Thing is, you don't think she'd have much to tell you. She has a weird way with people. Hell, if she's okay with you, what other kinds of shady characters might she be okay with? You've done what you can to raise her right, but social interaction beyond the two of you just never came up that often. You're looking out for her, in your own way.

Your own way happens to be hopping in your sleek black sedan and following your daughter down the lamp-lit streets, always staying a block or so behind and cutting into the shadows where you can, pool cue a comforting presence in the backseat, ready for any trouble that might arise. You know, like any good father would.

Eventually your daughter stops at a house and knocks on the door, which is answered promptly. You tense, but she doesn't go inside. Instead, another figure joins her. You can't see clearly enough at this distance, and it's too early to blow your cover, so you keep following.

Eventually they lead you to the movie theater, where there's a line-up outside and a convenient dark alley you can park yourself in and watch.

The person accompanying your daughter turns out to be a young troll woman about Aradia's age. Her hair is short but stylish, and her dress is a bit on the daring side fashion-wise but immaculate and expertly tailored, and she carries the look with easy grace. You feel a grudging sense of approval.

They're talking. You can't hear them and you've never been too good at reading lips, so it's more than a little frustrating. You're trying to figure out a way to get closer when all of a sudden it becomes irrelevant, because the troll girl reaches out to take Aradia's hand, just for a moment, and there's an expression on your little girl's face you've never seen there before (mostly because up until now she's really just had the one); there's a subtle light in her eyes the average person wouldn't even notice, but you've known her long enough you could never miss it.

Shit.

Fuck fuck fuck shit shit shit.

You pull out of the alley like hell's on your heels, only just barely keeping the tires from squealing as you take the corner. You've seen enough. You need time to deal with this little revelation and all the disaster it'll bring.

Your little girl's in love.

God fucking dammit.

Oh god please continue this, you are an excellent writer and i love daddy droog fics.

Also I believe that is one skeptic art i am not familiar with, oddly enough.

[Decker]

Okay, first ever actual contribution to the art forum. This was inspired in part by skeptic's Aradia/Kanaya picture and is based heavily on Rebbe's fic Camaraderie.

This is part one of god knows how many because I'm not really sure where this is going yet. It's also untitled for the moment. And it may undergo editing in the future because I really need to reread the Intermission.

So, uh, enjoy?

show spoiler

hide spoiler

"I'm having the boys over for poker tonight," you tell your daughter. "So scram for a few hours, would ya?"

She's already moving before you start the second sentence, completely unfazed. That's just how your little girl is: nothing gets under her skin. You like that about her; it means the two of you get along fine, no arguments, no misunderstandings. It's been a pretty easy ride, all things considered, and you're thankful for that.

She looks dapper in her coat and hat, hand poised on the doorknob. You approve. "See you later, Daddy," she tells you, and you almost manage not to twitch when she calls you that. You'd think after this long you'd be used to it, but your lip curls for an instant anyway. It doesn't matter; she's already out the door.

Slick arrives first, and Deuce and Boxcars not long after, and you settle in around the table for a gentleman's game. You're pretty sure Deuce has never entirely understood how poker works, and while once in a while he cruises through on uncanny luck, tonight is not his night. He's completely tapped early on in the evening. Slick starts off with a few good hands, but then things turn sour and his anger gets the better of him, and from then on you can read him like a book. He hangs on for a while out of sheer single-minded stubbornness -- and a willingness to keep reaching into his pocketbook -- but eventually he's got nothing left to give and he bows out less than graciously, muttering under his breath and glaring at you murderously. Boxcars may be the muscle of the crew, but he's got a pretty good mind and a stone face at the table, and in the end the two of you pretty much split the pot, though you note with satisfaction that you come out just slightly ahead of him for the evening.

So you're in a pretty good mood when Aradia comes home, an hour or so after the boys leave.

"How was your night? Where'd you run off to?" you ask her. Normally you wouldn't ask, wouldn't care -- honestly, you still don't right now. But you're a richer man in a good mood, and you want to share it, and that's how it all starts.

"Alright. Out with a friend," she replies.

You grunt in reply. Out with a friend, fair enough.

You stop.

"…You don't have any friends," you say suspiciously. Maybe it sounds cold, but it's true: your daughter's a loner. In all the years she's lived with you, you've never heard that phrase come out of her mouth before. Something is not right here.

Aradia simply shrugs and heads to her room. You think about pressing her further, but you decide against it. You've learned it's always better to have a cool head and some solid information before you start asking questions, so you let her go and decide to sleep on this little revelation.

Over the next couple of days you watch her as much as possible, out of the corner of your eye. None of your daughter's actions are out of the ordinary; she doesn't look like she's hiding anything. But you do notice a thing or two, like the way her suits are always pressed and perfect, her hair always neat and tidy. Normally you'd have to command her to take care of the way she looks, but you haven't done that in… how long has it been? A month?

You're definitely suspicious now.

On the third night after your poker game Aradia tells you she's going out for the evening.

"Where to?" you ask.

She shrugs. "I don't know yet. Just out with a friend."

You nod in acknowledgement. Three minutes after the door closes, you follow her.

It's not that you don't trust her. You don't trust anyone much, but you come the closest to it with your little girl. She's a good kid, and you know she'd tell you anything you wanted to know if you asked. Thing is, you don't think she'd have much to tell you. She has a weird way with people. Hell, if she's okay with you, what other kinds of shady characters might she be okay with? You've done what you can to raise her right, but social interaction beyond the two of you just never came up that often. You're looking out for her, in your own way.

Your own way happens to be hopping in your sleek black sedan and following your daughter down the lamp-lit streets, always staying a block or so behind and cutting into the shadows where you can, pool cue a comforting presence in the backseat, ready for any trouble that might arise. You know, like any good father would.

Eventually your daughter stops at a house and knocks on the door, which is answered promptly. You tense, but she doesn't go inside. Instead, another figure joins her. You can't see clearly enough at this distance, and it's too early to blow your cover, so you keep following.

Eventually they lead you to the movie theater, where there's a line-up outside and a convenient dark alley you can park yourself in and watch.

The person accompanying your daughter turns out to be a young troll woman about Aradia's age. Her hair is short but stylish, and her dress is a bit on the daring side fashion-wise but immaculate and expertly tailored, and she carries the look with easy grace. You feel a grudging sense of approval.

They're talking. You can't hear them and you've never been too good at reading lips, so it's more than a little frustrating. You're trying to figure out a way to get closer when all of a sudden it becomes irrelevant, because the troll girl reaches out to take Aradia's hand, just for a moment, and there's an expression on your little girl's face you've never seen there before (mostly because up until now she's really just had the one); there's a subtle light in her eyes the average person wouldn't even notice, but you've known her long enough you could never miss it.

Shit.

Fuck fuck fuck shit shit shit.

You pull out of the alley like hell's on your heels, only just barely keeping the tires from squealing as you take the corner. You've seen enough. You need time to deal with this little revelation and all the disaster it'll bring.

Your little girl's in love.

God fucking dammit.

I like it!

[lucidSeraph]

Okay, first ever actual contribution to the art forum. This was inspired in part by skeptic's Aradia/Kanaya picture and is based heavily on Rebbe's fic Camaraderie.

This is part one of god knows how many because I'm not really sure where this is going yet. It's also untitled for the moment. And it may undergo editing in the future because I really need to reread the Intermission.

So, uh, enjoy?

show spoiler

hide spoiler

"I'm having the boys over for poker tonight," you tell your daughter. "So scram for a few hours, would ya?"

She's already moving before you start the second sentence, completely unfazed. That's just how your little girl is: nothing gets under her skin. You like that about her; it means the two of you get along fine, no arguments, no misunderstandings. It's been a pretty easy ride, all things considered, and you're thankful for that.

She looks dapper in her coat and hat, hand poised on the doorknob. You approve. "See you later, Daddy," she tells you, and you almost manage not to twitch when she calls you that. You'd think after this long you'd be used to it, but your lip curls for an instant anyway. It doesn't matter; she's already out the door.

Slick arrives first, and Deuce and Boxcars not long after, and you settle in around the table for a gentleman's game. You're pretty sure Deuce has never entirely understood how poker works, and while once in a while he cruises through on uncanny luck, tonight is not his night. He's completely tapped early on in the evening. Slick starts off with a few good hands, but then things turn sour and his anger gets the better of him, and from then on you can read him like a book. He hangs on for a while out of sheer single-minded stubbornness -- and a willingness to keep reaching into his pocketbook -- but eventually he's got nothing left to give and he bows out less than graciously, muttering under his breath and glaring at you murderously. Boxcars may be the muscle of the crew, but he's got a pretty good mind and a stone face at the table, and in the end the two of you pretty much split the pot, though you note with satisfaction that you come out just slightly ahead of him for the evening.

So you're in a pretty good mood when Aradia comes home, an hour or so after the boys leave.

"How was your night? Where'd you run off to?" you ask her. Normally you wouldn't ask, wouldn't care -- honestly, you still don't right now. But you're a richer man in a good mood, and you want to share it, and that's how it all starts.

"Alright. Out with a friend," she replies.

You grunt in reply. Out with a friend, fair enough.

You stop.

"…You don't have any friends," you say suspiciously. Maybe it sounds cold, but it's true: your daughter's a loner. In all the years she's lived with you, you've never heard that phrase come out of her mouth before. Something is not right here.

Aradia simply shrugs and heads to her room. You think about pressing her further, but you decide against it. You've learned it's always better to have a cool head and some solid information before you start asking questions, so you let her go and decide to sleep on this little revelation.

Over the next couple of days you watch her as much as possible, out of the corner of your eye. None of your daughter's actions are out of the ordinary; she doesn't look like she's hiding anything. But you do notice a thing or two, like the way her suits are always pressed and perfect, her hair always neat and tidy. Normally you'd have to command her to take care of the way she looks, but you haven't done that in… how long has it been? A month?

You're definitely suspicious now.

On the third night after your poker game Aradia tells you she's going out for the evening.

"Where to?" you ask.

She shrugs. "I don't know yet. Just out with a friend."

You nod in acknowledgement. Three minutes after the door closes, you follow her.

It's not that you don't trust her. You don't trust anyone much, but you come the closest to it with your little girl. She's a good kid, and you know she'd tell you anything you wanted to know if you asked. Thing is, you don't think she'd have much to tell you. She has a weird way with people. Hell, if she's okay with you, what other kinds of shady characters might she be okay with? You've done what you can to raise her right, but social interaction beyond the two of you just never came up that often. You're looking out for her, in your own way.

Your own way happens to be hopping in your sleek black sedan and following your daughter down the lamp-lit streets, always staying a block or so behind and cutting into the shadows where you can, pool cue a comforting presence in the backseat, ready for any trouble that might arise. You know, like any good father would.

Eventually your daughter stops at a house and knocks on the door, which is answered promptly. You tense, but she doesn't go inside. Instead, another figure joins her. You can't see clearly enough at this distance, and it's too early to blow your cover, so you keep following.

Eventually they lead you to the movie theater, where there's a line-up outside and a convenient dark alley you can park yourself in and watch.

The person accompanying your daughter turns out to be a young troll woman about Aradia's age. Her hair is short but stylish, and her dress is a bit on the daring side fashion-wise but immaculate and expertly tailored, and she carries the look with easy grace. You feel a grudging sense of approval.

They're talking. You can't hear them and you've never been too good at reading lips, so it's more than a little frustrating. You're trying to figure out a way to get closer when all of a sudden it becomes irrelevant, because the troll girl reaches out to take Aradia's hand, just for a moment, and there's an expression on your little girl's face you've never seen there before (mostly because up until now she's really just had the one); there's a subtle light in her eyes the average person wouldn't even notice, but you've known her long enough you could never miss it.

Shit.

Fuck fuck fuck shit shit shit.

You pull out of the alley like hell's on your heels, only just barely keeping the tires from squealing as you take the corner. You've seen enough. You need time to deal with this little revelation and all the disaster it'll bring.

Your little girl's in love.

God fucking dammit.

!

Oh my gosh

Kanaya x Aradia

Daddy Droog

EVERYTHING IS BEAUTIFUL

[morpheoMancer]

Okay, first ever actual contribution to the art forum. This was inspired in part by skeptic's Aradia/Kanaya picture and is based heavily on Rebbe's fic Camaraderie.

This is part one of god knows how many because I'm not really sure where this is going yet. It's also untitled for the moment. And it may undergo editing in the future because I really need to reread the Intermission.

So, uh, enjoy?

show spoiler

hide spoiler

"I'm having the boys over for poker tonight," you tell your daughter. "So scram for a few hours, would ya?"

She's already moving before you start the second sentence, completely unfazed. That's just how your little girl is: nothing gets under her skin. You like that about her; it means the two of you get along fine, no arguments, no misunderstandings. It's been a pretty easy ride, all things considered, and you're thankful for that.

She looks dapper in her coat and hat, hand poised on the doorknob. You approve. "See you later, Daddy," she tells you, and you almost manage not to twitch when she calls you that. You'd think after this long you'd be used to it, but your lip curls for an instant anyway. It doesn't matter; she's already out the door.

Slick arrives first, and Deuce and Boxcars not long after, and you settle in around the table for a gentleman's game. You're pretty sure Deuce has never entirely understood how poker works, and while once in a while he cruises through on uncanny luck, tonight is not his night. He's completely tapped early on in the evening. Slick starts off with a few good hands, but then things turn sour and his anger gets the better of him, and from then on you can read him like a book. He hangs on for a while out of sheer single-minded stubbornness -- and a willingness to keep reaching into his pocketbook -- but eventually he's got nothing left to give and he bows out less than graciously, muttering under his breath and glaring at you murderously. Boxcars may be the muscle of the crew, but he's got a pretty good mind and a stone face at the table, and in the end the two of you pretty much split the pot, though you note with satisfaction that you come out just slightly ahead of him for the evening.

So you're in a pretty good mood when Aradia comes home, an hour or so after the boys leave.

"How was your night? Where'd you run off to?" you ask her. Normally you wouldn't ask, wouldn't care -- honestly, you still don't right now. But you're a richer man in a good mood, and you want to share it, and that's how it all starts.

"Alright. Out with a friend," she replies.

You grunt in reply. Out with a friend, fair enough.

You stop.

"…You don't have any friends," you say suspiciously. Maybe it sounds cold, but it's true: your daughter's a loner. In all the years she's lived with you, you've never heard that phrase come out of her mouth before. Something is not right here.

Aradia simply shrugs and heads to her room. You think about pressing her further, but you decide against it. You've learned it's always better to have a cool head and some solid information before you start asking questions, so you let her go and decide to sleep on this little revelation.

Over the next couple of days you watch her as much as possible, out of the corner of your eye. None of your daughter's actions are out of the ordinary; she doesn't look like she's hiding anything. But you do notice a thing or two, like the way her suits are always pressed and perfect, her hair always neat and tidy. Normally you'd have to command her to take care of the way she looks, but you haven't done that in… how long has it been? A month?

You're definitely suspicious now.

On the third night after your poker game Aradia tells you she's going out for the evening.

"Where to?" you ask.

She shrugs. "I don't know yet. Just out with a friend."

You nod in acknowledgement. Three minutes after the door closes, you follow her.

It's not that you don't trust her. You don't trust anyone much, but you come the closest to it with your little girl. She's a good kid, and you know she'd tell you anything you wanted to know if you asked. Thing is, you don't think she'd have much to tell you. She has a weird way with people. Hell, if she's okay with you, what other kinds of shady characters might she be okay with? You've done what you can to raise her right, but social interaction beyond the two of you just never came up that often. You're looking out for her, in your own way.

Your own way happens to be hopping in your sleek black sedan and following your daughter down the lamp-lit streets, always staying a block or so behind and cutting into the shadows where you can, pool cue a comforting presence in the backseat, ready for any trouble that might arise. You know, like any good father would.

Eventually your daughter stops at a house and knocks on the door, which is answered promptly. You tense, but she doesn't go inside. Instead, another figure joins her. You can't see clearly enough at this distance, and it's too early to blow your cover, so you keep following.

Eventually they lead you to the movie theater, where there's a line-up outside and a convenient dark alley you can park yourself in and watch.

The person accompanying your daughter turns out to be a young troll woman about Aradia's age. Her hair is short but stylish, and her dress is a bit on the daring side fashion-wise but immaculate and expertly tailored, and she carries the look with easy grace. You feel a grudging sense of approval.

They're talking. You can't hear them and you've never been too good at reading lips, so it's more than a little frustrating. You're trying to figure out a way to get closer when all of a sudden it becomes irrelevant, because the troll girl reaches out to take Aradia's hand, just for a moment, and there's an expression on your little girl's face you've never seen there before (mostly because up until now she's really just had the one); there's a subtle light in her eyes the average person wouldn't even notice, but you've known her long enough you could never miss it.

Shit.

Fuck fuck fuck shit shit shit.

You pull out of the alley like hell's on your heels, only just barely keeping the tires from squealing as you take the corner. You've seen enough. You need time to deal with this little revelation and all the disaster it'll bring.

Your little girl's in love.

God fucking dammit.

This was utterly fantastic. I really like how you portrayed Droog especially.

[SeptimusMagistos]

So...here's a thing.

Just a Moment:

show spoiler

hide spoiler

Aradia comes and goes.

Equius can deduce no pattern within it. Perhaps there isn’t one; perhaps there doesn’t have to be one. As the Maid of Time, Aradia can go to any moment, as well as most places.

She does not keep her visits linear; he is sure that sometimes she comes to him from the beginning of the session and sometimes from the end, or somewhere in-between, within her strange time loops.

Equius doesn’t mind.

The visits are not always strictly pleasant. Sometimes she is enraged; sometimes she is distant; once, she was in a philosophical mood and raised many existential questions he would rather not be answered. This time around, however, she seems amiable.

Equius traces a finger down her forearm - gently, but not quite as gently as possible. It feels so good to be able to touch someone without fear of breaking them. He moves his hand down to her fingers, twiddling them carefully. They seem so delicate, and yet they’re so strong. He remembers crafting every detail of them, and yet they’re alive now in a way they weren’t then. Aradia is the fusion of her own passionate soul and his technical knowledge. (There is also a frog in there somewhere).

She is beautiful.

Equius admits he does not know how to approach her. It is strange: he understands love well enough to program it into a computer chip in a troll girl’s heart, and yet is clueless enough to have believed that was in any way a good idea. Love is counterintuitive: it requires so much give and take; so many variables left uncontrolled.

Love does not allow the use of force.

Force comes naturally to him. His strength is only one aspect of it. The deep desire to give out orders is another one. And the robots are yet another. The systems of a robot draw on the force of a power source and distribute it through the body. It is simple.

Unless you throw a soul into the equation.

Souls make solving for X very difficult.

Though Equius doesn’t really know what to do, he tries to work his way through it, fumbling uncomprehendingly like a fresh wiggler trying to explore the world, before the Tests are upon him. It is sometimes difficult, sometimes pleasant, and always worth it.

Aradia looks him in the eyes. Or perhaps she’s looking at his glasses. Perhaps she wonders why they are broken. He could have fixed them back on Alternia. He can certainly fix them now – or, better yet, replace them. She doesn’t know that he’s grown used to seeing the world like this – darkened and cracked. A world without cracks in it would be quite difficult for him now.

Some time passes, and Aradia stands up. The moment grows short; it is almost time for her to disappear. Equius supposes he also has responsibilities to attend to.

Before she disappears, Equius draws her in. Gently, again. It feels so odd to use body language to ask for something.

She acquiesces.

All the lessons of delicacy are forgotten now. Steel strains against muscle as they embrace; their lips press into each other with force enough to crush coal into diamond. The passion he feels here is fiercer than anything he's felt before. It burns brighter than his rage; it is more important to him than his blood. It is terrifying and delirious all at once.

He wouldn’t trade it for anything.

And then she is gone. He does not sigh. How could he, after a moment like that?

He will see her again. He feels confident he will keep seeing her, forever and forever.

One moment at a time.

[Wigmund]

Pure Unadulterated Terror

show spoiler

hide spoiler

honk
HONK
honk
hoo hoo
hee hee
HONK
HAA HAA
honk HONK
hee hee
honk
HAA HAA
HONK HONK
HOO HOO
"honk motherfucker"
"Dammit, you've ruined this conversation."
"SHIT, I'M SORRY MY FUCKING PUPPET PAL."

I'm sorry.

[Tybian Sothoth]

show spoiler

hide spoiler

http://www.mspaforums.com/showthread...=1#post4515717
http://www.mspaforums.com/showthread...=1#post4517215
http://www.mspaforums.com/showthread...=1#post4521451
http://www.mspaforums.com/showthread...=1#post4525474
http://www.mspaforums.com/showthread...=1#post4526712
http://www.mspaforums.com/showthread...=1#post4526848
http://www.mspaforums.com/showthread...=1#post4531039
http://www.mspaforums.com/showthread...=1#post4532950
http://www.mspaforums.com/showthread...=1#post4535661
http://www.mspaforums.com/showthread...=1#post4539642
http://www.mspaforums.com/showthread...=1#post4543269
http://www.mspaforums.com/showthread...=1#post4548832
http://www.mspaforums.com/showthread...=1#post4553210
http://www.mspaforums.com/showthread...=1#post4563832

The Survivor
Chapter 15
Recap Time

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Author: Reveal yourself!!

...

Oh uhh ==>

SC: GET OUT HERE AND EXPLAIN THIS CRAP

No need to yell, I'm right here.
Hrmpf, while your manners may be out on vacation I think I'll take this time to properly introduce myself.
I am simply an amateur writ, being bared by the god-like STRENGTH of our shared inspiration.
If you want to, you could call me an enigma of sorts, but that's a little corny for my tastes.

It appears my little lightning stricken midnight idea has grown, wouldn't you say? 14 chapters would be a pretty mammoth undertaking for those only just starting out. I'll do you a solid and recap the important bits then.
But don't ever yell at me like that again.

show spoiler

hide spoiler

Our story begins 10 minutes following Sollux's entry into the game Sgrub. By now, every sentient being within the universe that held Alternia has been completely eradicated by meteors or the Vast Glub. The 13 trolls who were allowed entry into Sgrub survived this holocaust of course, but one troll was fortunate enough to escape deaths hand a number of times through the help of a star, the sacrifice of his Lusus, and the guiding hand of Doc Scratch.

His name is Tybian Sothoth, he's the small troll that we have been following throughout the course of the Sgrub session. He was saved by our friend Doc Scratch, who Tybian refers to as the White Guest. The White Guest decided to spare Tybian's life in exchange for his help in eliminating those that were in the middle of the Sgrub game. He was specifically picked because he has spoken to all of the players at least once in his life. Tybian is at first reluctant to help the White Guest as he has no knowledge of what Sgrub is or how he would feel being sent to kill off some of his friends. The White Guest provides Tybian an outlet to speak to the players and to better help him make a decision. He foes on to warn against using Tybian's old trollian handle to avoid the risk of being recognized by any of them. Tybian chooses the handle foreverParadox.

Tybian first contacts Nepeta Leijon, who quickly catches onto his ruse, which forces Tybian to ABSCOND! He then contacts Eridan Ampora and begins to poke fun at him after viewing his break-up with Feferi through the Timeline Dragger application. Lastly, he contacts Tavros Nitram, who is acting unlike himself. Unbeknownst to Tybian, it is not Tavros he's talking to at all, but Vriska Serket. Abusing the situation, she makes Tybian think that Tavros never liked him, and that he should give up trying to talk to him as Tavros has never cared for what Tybian had to say. After hearing this, Tybian swears to not only kill the players, but to see if he can't force "Tavros" to act like his old self again so that they can once again be friends.

The White Guest arrives and better explains the situation to Tybian. It seems that the players had prior knowledge of both the White Guest and the coding for unstable universe afflicting viruses. The potential danger related to this knowledge has forced the White Guest to Null their session via player elimination. Tybian agrees to help the White Guest in his plans. As thanks for agreeing, the White Guest opens a set of double doors and reunites Tybian with a star he had named his best friend during his days on his remote island.

As a grub, Tybian was dropped on the island by his lusus in what he believes was his lusus' was of protecting him from the horrors of the mainland. Instead of protecting him, it had the reverse effect in that it exposed him to the dangers of not only possible starvation, but the murderous sea-dwellers, and the socially crippling effect of loneliness. In an effort to block his loneliness, he befriended the night sky and used his trusty brass telescope to get a better picture of what it looked like. A lot of Tybian's favorite possessions washed up on the beach. Most of the junk was just that, utter junk, but after finding a working Husktop system, he began connecting with many mainland, and some sea-dwelling, trolls. It was during this time that he met the soon to be Sgrub players and grew to love/hate/befriend/austicpice with many of them. The troll that Tybian grew to hate the most was Vriska Serket, who apparently had a near kismesis-like history with Tybian through both manipulation and general badgering that traumatized him and sent him into fits of uncontrollable rage. After many of these episodes of grief, Tybian sought reconciliation from the green star that would shine down on him and act to comfort his mental wounds.

Seeing the star up close, in the Land of Prisms and Echoes, drove Tybian into a frenzy. Soon he found himself running toward the star and eventually began being pulled inward by the star's gravitational pull. The White Guest recommended that Tybian peer through his telescope to see if anything would happen. As soon as he had looked through his telescope, he found himself flying toward it at super speed. Soon the echoes of the room began to form into a voice. It called him the Convict of Space and told him that it had granted him a portion of its power.

After being returned to the doorway, the White Guest remarks that few First Guardians have ever had direct contact with the source of their power, and that Tybian was one of the first. He instructs Tybian to think of his home, and soon they find themselves at the smoldering remains of the remote island. Seeing his reflection in the water causes Tybian to realize that he has become very strong, possibly stronger then Vriska. He and the White Guest shake hands to mark their deal, and Tybian teleports into the Land of Sand and Zephyr.

Here, Tybian uses the White Guests typewriter to open the EVENT CULMINATION memo and warns his targets of their impending doom. This quickly devolves into the trolls simply trading captcha codes and pestering one another, all while ignoring Tybian's threats. After Tybian is banned and the rest finally leave the memo, Tybian reacts by throwing a tantrum and blowing a small crater into the planet he is on.

He leaves Losaz and lands on the Land of Little Cups and Tea where he finds Equius in a scuffle with a dozen or so imps. After Equius finishes the imps off, Tybian attempts to convince Equius to let him help in his session while Equius would help Tybian kill the others. At first Equius refuses, but when Tybian demands his cooperation he breaks out in a sweat and finds himself sinking into the wetted sugar beneath him. Tybian rescues him and uses the rescue as blackmail against Equius to put him under his control.

In his first act of assistance, Equius links his Trollian handle to Tybian's which allows him to read the TEAM ADORABLOODTHIRSTY memo. Through this, Tybian is given a peek into his targets doings and is able to formulate a "better" plan to break their will. With this Equius decides to leave with Nepeta and Tybian teleports to the Land of Thought and Flow

Here he puts his plan into motion by trying to convince Terezi to betray Karkat and the rest. This completely falls apart before it can start as he and Terezi begin to role-play, which leaves Defense Attorney Tybian swinging from the gallows and Terezi unfazed in her doings. Tybian finds himself clueless as to how to proceed, and soon he also finds himself surrounded by imps and ogres. They hadn't bothered Tybian before, and the sudden change in attitude left him worried.

He is contacted by Vriska, who decides she's bored and will listen to Tybian's predicament. He tells Vriska that he is at a loss for how to go about killing everyone and that he could use some help. Vriska finds this hilarious and begins remarking that Tybian is a failure and a total crybaby. Tybian grows angry, which prompts Vriska to continue picking on him more and more. She then notices something that she thinks is Tybian's doing and begins demanding to know just what happened to him to give that much power. Before he can answer her (like he would) he blows up her computer and goes on an thrashing rampage.

Fed up with being let on by everyone, Tybian contacts Karkat and begins bitching at him about how shitty everyone is. As soon as he mentions Vriska, Karkat stops him and clues him in on the fact that they haven't heard from Vriska for a long time. Tybian tells Karkat that he was just talking to her only a couple minutes before he had contacted Karkat. Both of them, now utterly dumbfounded, decide to help each other as a mutual gesture. Karkat tells Tybian to find Vriska and see what she has been up to, and in return he would allow Tybian to join in on their session. Tybian, overjoyed at being able to join them, agrees and sets off to find Vriska.

[quantumCopycat]

So...here's a thing.

Just a Moment:

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Aradia comes and goes.

Equius can deduce no pattern within it. Perhaps there isn’t one; perhaps there doesn’t have to be one. As the Maid of Time, Aradia can go to any moment, as well as most places.

She does not keep her visits linear; he is sure that sometimes she comes to him from the beginning of the session and sometimes from the end, or somewhere in-between, within her strange time loops.

Equius doesn’t mind.

The visits are not always strictly pleasant. Sometimes she is enraged; sometimes she is distant; once, she was in a philosophical mood and raised many existential questions he would rather not be answered. This time around, however, she seems amiable.

Equius traces a finger down her forearm - gently, but not quite as gently as possible. It feels so good to be able to touch someone without fear of breaking them. He moves his hand down to her fingers, twiddling them carefully. They seem so delicate, and yet they’re so strong. He remembers crafting every detail of them, and yet they’re alive now in a way they weren’t then. Aradia is the fusion of her own passionate soul and his technical knowledge. (There is also a frog in there somewhere).

She is beautiful.

Equius admits he does not know how to approach her. It is strange: he understands love well enough to program it into a computer chip in a troll girl’s heart, and yet is clueless enough to have believed that was in any way a good idea. Love is counterintuitive: it requires so much give and take; so many variables left uncontrolled.

Love does not allow the use of force.

Force comes naturally to him. His strength is only one aspect of it. The deep desire to give out orders is another one. And the robots are yet another. The systems of a robot draw on the force of a power source and distribute it through the body. It is simple.

Unless you throw a soul into the equation.

Souls make solving for X very difficult.

Though Equius doesn’t really know what to do, he tries to work his way through it, fumbling uncomprehendingly like a fresh wiggler trying to explore the world, before the Tests are upon him. It is sometimes difficult, sometimes pleasant, and always worth it.

Aradia looks him in the eyes. Or perhaps she’s looking at his glasses. Perhaps she wonders why they are broken. He could have fixed them back on Alternia. He can certainly fix them now – or, better yet, replace them. She doesn’t know that he’s grown used to seeing the world like this – darkened and cracked. A world without cracks in it would be quite difficult for him now.

Some time passes, and Aradia stands up. The moment grows short; it is almost time for her to disappear. Equius supposes he also has responsibilities to attend to.

Before she disappears, Equius draws her in. Gently, again. It feels so odd to use body language to ask for something.

She acquiesces.

All the lessons of delicacy are forgotten now. Steel strains against muscle as they embrace; their lips press into each other with force enough to crush diamond into rock. The passion he feels here is fiercer than anything he;s felt before. It burns brighter than his; it is more important to him than his blood. It is terrifying and delirious all at once.

He wouldn’t trade it for anything.

And then she is gone. He does not sigh. How could he, after a moment like that?

He will see her again. He feels confident he will keep seeing her, forever and forever.

One moment at a time.

; _ ;

please

moar

[Metaflare]

Pure Unadulterated Terror

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honk
HONK
honk
hoo hoo
hee hee
HONK
HAA HAA
honk HONK
hee hee
honk
HAA HAA
HONK HONK
HOO HOO
"honk motherfucker"
"Dammit, you've ruined this conversation."
"SHIT, I'M SORRY MY FUCKING PUPPET PAL."

I'm sorry.

...This oddly wasn't as terrifing as I expected it to be.