MSPA Fanfiction V: We're Going to Need More Wands

[Mister Tambourine Man]

First time fanficcing, and it was fun. Gore warning ahead.
The Miracle Mural
http://www.text-upload.com/read.php?id=47041&c=1839621
Oh god please don't hate me because I did something wrong.

It's not bad, but there's something off about it. It feels like the whole thing just comes and goes too fast to have a whole lot of impact. I'd say you need to slow things draw it out a little more. But that's just me.

[Dermonster]

Dark Carnival

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I wasn't really sure what to expect when we entered the stadium.

There would, of course, be the entire performance setup, I had just hoped that we didn't encounter more zombies than necessary.

Ellis, as usual, was waking poetic about Keith or something. Something about accidentally eating two grams of raw nuclear waste?

Rochelle was freaking out about something. Or she was high off of pills. Hard to tell. Coach was, as usual, trying to calm her down.

Frankly I just wanted to get out of here.

Finally, we grabbed what we could and set out into the stadium hallway.

No zombies. Strange.

A growl/whimper emanated from the bathroom side passage.

I crouched, gun held steady. "Hunter!"

The others quickly got into position and Coach peeked around the corner.

The hunter leaped out and... flew straight past us and out through the safe room door?

Odd, but I wasn't complaining.

"Sumthin' weird's goin' on here." Ellis practically shouted.

I may like the kid but damn is his voice loud.

"Let's get moving." I said, and moved forward, others close behind.

We entered the stadium.

Big and empty. With a constant honking sound coming from center stage, of which we didn't have a clear view.

"Somebody shoot the clown!"

I rolled my eyes. I know Coach. We've done this several dozen times now. Shut up.

Rochell took point and led the procession up to main stage.

She pretty much stopped dead in her tracks once she saw... whatever it was. I moved past her to take a look.

Honestly, I wasn't expecting much. A clown certainly. A cluster of zombies sure. Maybe a smoker or jockey.

What I didn't expect was a little kid hitting a dead clown in the face with a guitar surrounded by about 4, very dead, tanks.

Correction: Three very dead tanks and one with it's limbs sheared off and trying to drag itself away using it's very tiny head. Which the kid very quickly put a stop to.

Note: It is apparently possible to cleave a tank in half, up/down, with a guitar.

Then he looked at us.

Correction: Not a kid. A weird ass clown kid in pajamas. And a midnight rider leather jacket. With horns.

Coach was staring at them. Now that I thought about it, they did resemble candy corn.

Good ol' Coach.

"HELLO THERE.
did you come to see the dark carnival?
FUCKIN' MIRACLES UP IN THIS MOTHERFUCKER.
plays the tune so fuckin' loud
HONK.
honk.
HONK.
honk.

He then strummed a chord on that guitar.

The resulting explosion blew the roof of the stage off.

Somehow I knew this was going to get worse before it got better.

[Doodled]

Dark Carnival

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I wasn't really sure what to expect when we entered the stadium.

There would, of course, be the entire performance setup, I had just hoped that we didn't encounter more zombies than necessary.

Ellis, as usual, was waking poetic about Keith or something. Something about accidentally eating two grams of raw nuclear waste?

Rochelle was freaking out about something. Or she was high off of pills. Hard to tell. Coach was, as usual, trying to calm her down.

Frankly I just wanted to get out of here.

Finally, we grabbed what we could and set out into the stadium hallway.

No zombies. Strange.

A growl/whimper emanated from the bathroom side passage.

I crouched, gun held steady. "Hunter!"

The others quickly got into position and Coach peeked around the corner.

The hunter leaped out and... flew straight past us and out through the safe room door?

Odd, but I wasn't complaining.

"Sumthin' weird's goin' on here." Ellis practically shouted.

I may like the kid but damn is his voice loud.

"Let's get moving." I said, and moved forward, others close behind.

We entered the stadium.

Big and empty. With a constant honking sound coming from center stage, of which we didn't have a clear view.

"Somebody shoot the clown!"

I rolled my eyes. I know Coach. We've done this several dozen times now. Shut up.

Rochell took point and led the procession up to main stage.

She pretty much stopped dead in her tracks once she saw... whatever it was. I moved past her to take a look.

Honestly, I wasn't expecting much. A clown certainly. A cluster of zombies sure. Maybe a smoker or jockey.

What I didn't expect was a little kid hitting a dead clown in the face with a guitar surrounded by about 4, very dead, tanks.

Correction: Three very dead tanks and one with it's limbs sheared off and trying to drag itself away using it's very tiny head. Which the kid very quickly put a stop to.

Note: It is apparently possible to cleave a tank in half, up/down, with a guitar.

Then he looked at us.

Correction: Not a kid. A weird ass clown kid in pajamas. And a midnight rider leather jacket. With horns.

Coach was staring at them. Now that I thought about it, they did resemble candy corn.

Good ol' Coach.

"HELLO THERE.
did you come to see the dark carnival?
FUCKIN' MIRACLES UP IN THIS MOTHERFUCKER.
plays the tune so fuckin' loud
HONK.
honk.
HONK.
honk.

He then strummed a chord on that guitar.

The resulting explosion blew the roof of the stage off.

Somehow I knew this was going to get worse before it got better.

...

...and that's all there really is to say on the matter.

[Author]

I've had this stuck in my head for a while.

That and some crazy Doomed Timeline shit that I'll write later. But for now...

A Story Of Love

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Eridan sobbed quietly. He had such a hard life. Everybody hated him, and nobody understood how hard it was being alone and unloved. He cried as he killed yet another angel. He ignored a message from Karkat, too busy crying, but suddenly... A new message, from a new friend appeared.

Open Chatlog

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-- lovelyGurl [LG] began trolling caligulasAquarium [CA] at 17:22 --
CA: wwoah wwho are you
LG: Hi Im A Seven Sweep Troll Looking For A Nice Guy
LG: But He Has To Be The Right Size
CA: im the right size i know it
LG: Hmmmm
LG: You Sure Are But First You Need To Do Something For Me
LG: http://tinyurl.com/yfao5zp
LG: And Increase The Size Of Your Bone Bulge With Their Product
CA: okay ill do that
LG: Great Hurry Back Soon
LG: You Need To Increase It Quickly
LG: Because This Is A Limited Time Offer
CA: wwow youre right
CA: ivve nevver felt like this about anybody before lg
Ca: wwould you like to be my matesprit?
LG: Yes You Finally Did It
CA: swweet!
CA: ill see you later lg i havve to go tell my friend
-- caligulasAquarium [CA] ceased trolling lovelyGurl [LG] at 17:29 --
LG: Okay Hurry Back Baby
LG: You Need To Get Back Soon And See Me
LG: Ive Got Something You Need To Do

Eridan cackled with glee as he began to inform his friend of his new accomplishment.

Open Chatlog

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-- caligulasAquarium [CA began trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 17:29 --
CA: hey kar guess wwhat
CG: FOR THE LAST FUCKING TIME YOU WASTE OF CARAPACE
CG: I WILL NOT BE YOUR STUPID FUCKING MATESPRIT OR MORAIL OR WHATEVER THE FUCK IT IS YOUR AFTER.
CG: BECAUSE I HATE YOU. AND NOT IN THAT WAY.
CA: oh no kar i dont need you anymore
CG: THANK GOD FOR THAT.
CA: because i have a neww matesprit noww
CA: so fuck you too asshole!
CG: BULLSHIT.
CG: WHAT'S HER TROLLTAG?
CA: lovelyGurl
CG: ...
CG: OKAY YOU ARE QUITE POSSIBLY THE MOST RETARDED PERSON I'VE EVER MET.
CG: YOU'RE WORSE THEN FAG. AND SHE WAS JUST FUCKING MINDNUMBINGLY STUPID.
CA: hey dont insult my matesprit like that kar
CA: you dont havve to be jealous
CG: JEALOUS?
CG: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
CG: SORRY FOR MY LAUGHTER. I JUST LAUGH AT FUCKING RETARDED SHIT SOMETIMES.
CG: LOVELYGURL IS A FUCKING SPAMBOT YOU WASTE OF BLOOD.
CG: SERIOUSLY ARE YOU ALWAYS THIS MUCH OF A MORON?
CG: YOUR BLOOD COLOR WAS FUCKING WASTED ON YOU.
CA: she is not a spambot!
CA: i lovve her kar i wwant to make
CA: you knoww
CA: wwith her
CG: OH MAN I CAN JUST SEE THAT NOW
CG: "OH SPAMBOT I LOVVE YOU SO MUCH"
CG: "WWE MUST CALL THE IMPERIAL DRONE!"
CG: YOU ARE STUPID AND THIS IS DEGRADING TO ME.
CG: SEE YOU FUCKWAD.

-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased trolling caligulasAquarium [CA] at 17:35 --

CA: wwait kar
CG: WHAT.
CA: please come to lowwaa
CG: NO FUCK YOU.

-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased trolling caligulasAquarium [CA] at 17:35 --

CA: please
CA: its so fucking lonely

Notes

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This shit's been in my head for DAYS. Blame Domoz. Also FAG=Future arachnidsGrip. Yeah I had too.

@Below: oh god no. I wasn't going searching for sites like that. I wanted to make a "WOULD I REALLY DO THAT FUCKWAD?" image, but it seemed like work. So I went with Vader.

[Wigmund]

Was I supposed to get a "Holy shit, this URL might be harmful" warning when I clicked on that link Author?

[mythmonster2]

Obviously it is true love. How else would a spambot survive the Reckoning just to tell Eridan how to improve the size of his bone bulge?

EDIT: Also, it says the url goes to nooooooooo.com. (The site with the Darth Vader Big No button) Totally harmless.

[SeptimusMagistos]

I just got back from setting up my AO3 archive and I am sick of editing HTML. Felt like actually writing something, so have this way-too-small to be a chapter pesterlog.

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caligulasAquarium [CA] began trolling grimAuxiliatrix [GA]

CA: hey, kan, havve you thought about my offer
GA: I Am Afraid I Still Do Not Fully Comprehend The Premise Of The Organization You Are Attempting To Create
CA: wwhat’s not to comprehend
CA: it’s a rejected by humans club and it is pretty much wwhat it sounds like
CA: i think wwe can all agree that you’re going to be qualified to join sooner or later so i’m wwilling to wwavve the requirements right now
GA: I Am Sure I Have No Idea What You’re Talking About
CA: kan trust me on this
CA: as the prince of hope i am uniquely qualified to determine when there is no hope left
CA: and you havve no hope wwith the human girl
CA: so you might as wwell join the club noww and savve yourself the hassle
GA: And Who Would Be Keeping Us Company In This Club
GA: Might I Ask
CA: right now its me and tav
CA: kar said he didn’t want to join but i'm sure he wwill change his mind once wwe get enough people
CA: and betwween you and me i think terezi wwill join us eventually
CA: and maybe vriska
CA: i think
CA: i don’t know
GA: I Feel Like You Have Possibly Created A Solution In Search Of A Problem
CA: wwell if that’s the wway you feel
CA: then howw about joinin the mad at vriska club instead
GA: And Who Is In That Prestigious Organization
CA: wwell i sort of just made it up
CA: but i’m pretty sure wwe’re not going to have problems with membership
CA: except maybe wwith beatin excess ones from the doors
GA: I Will Admit The Premise Of Your Club Intrigues Me
GA: I Wish To Know More
CA: all right but you should knoww
CA: the first rule of the club is don’t talk to vvriska about the club
CA: keep your mouth clammed up
GA: And The Second Rule
CA: i wwil admit i am not that far yet
CA: listen let me think for a wwhile and get back to you at this point of time
GA: I Will Eagerly Await Your Call

caligulasAquarium [CA] ceased trolling grimAuxiliatrix [GA]

[The Cool]

So what happen when immortal people on a post-apocalyptic Earth find a way to start somthing new?

Desolation: Reversed

1.1

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Ping!

He looked over at his Picture Gallery. One of the paintings was lit up: the pure black one. He walked over to it and spoke.
"Yeah?"
A voice emenated from the painting.
"You up for something interesting?"
He was puzzled. Not that the painting was speaking, that was normal, but that something interesting was happening.
"Are we suddenly not rationing excitement anymore?"
Eternity gets boring after a while. It was decided that Events would be rationed out, in order to stave off boredom as long as possble. But, there had been a food fight just two days ago.
"Scratch ALL of that rationing nonsense. Jack, I found something that will make all of that MEANINGLESS."
"Yeah? What is it?"
"A game."
He recoiled. Was that intentional?
"FFFFFF"
"Goddammit, Jack. ANYWAY. Well you know I have that copy of the Internet laying around."
"Yeah."
"Well I was browsing a list of ALL OF THE TORRENTS, and I found a game I never heard of before."
"Never heard OF? That's rare."
"Yeah. Well, I looked it up and GameFAQs, and if the walkthrough is to be believed, this is the most important game ever."
"IF it's to be believed?"
"It's pretty outlandish, but the other, less complete, walkthroughs support it."
"You know I'm up for important things. But...
"Hm?"
"Is this gonna be with everybody or is it, like, a secret?"
"It'll involve everyone eventually, but it goes one at a time. It's a bit complicated."
"Alright. I assume you'll be planning things out. Just keep in mind that, uh, Beako and I aren't exactly... on good terms."
"I'll keep it in mind."

A/N

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It's fanfic of my own story.
Like
My own fiction.
Weird...

[apocalypticCritic]

@ Septimus: Pretty good, except your color tags for Eridan changed to a more blue color.

And by more blue I mean entirely dark blue.

[Jim Groovester]

I need to catch up on some fics, but I've got Part 2 written and am posting it now.

Also, there's a correction I need to make for Part 1, for those of you following along. The murdered man is a courier, and PS and AR are supposed to find that out, so that's been edited in.

The Sapphire of Alternia, Part 2

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Problem Sleuth gets out of bed four hours later without a single minute of sleep. He sighs and gets ready for work. After showering and throwing on a fresh pair of clothes he rides the bus to his office.

The door is unlocked, which is no surprise since every time Problem Sleuth tries to lock a door he just blows the lock off for some reason.

He walks inside and turns on the light and ceiling fan and opens the blinds to the window. It’s an actual window. Not one that leads into a crazy imagination land. After Mobster Kingpin died the building was remodeled to better serve the needs of its heroic private detectives, and to give it Euclidean geometry.

Problem Sleuth: Fondly regard group picture.

That was a hell of an adventure. Although you probably should have seen it coming. When your landlord is the main suspect in every case you take, you tend to drop your cases to retain your office. And without cases you can’t pay rent.

What happened was the obvious logical conclusion to that conflict.

Problem Sleuth sits down in his chair and pulls the Mysterious Carapace’s wallet from his coat and puts it on the desk. He opens the wallet and looks at the driver’s license. “Well, Movement Contractor, looks like you’re now Murdered Courier.” Problem Sleuth tears a page out of a notebook and scribbles down the address.

The door to the office opens, and a woman with a white blouse and blue skirt walks in. She’s got a messenger bag full of mail on her side and pressed between her body and arm is a newspaper and a large package. “Can you believe this?” Persevering Maillady asks, kicking the door closed behind her. She puts all her loose items on Problem Sleuth’s desk and sits cross-legged on it. “This is why you should always go with the post office.” She says as she tosses the newspaper in front of him.

Courier found dead in dumpster; police have no leads. And the caption beneath the photo of the chalk outline: call Anarchy Repressor if you have any information. “I know. I was there.”

Persevering Maillady turns her head with surprised eyes. “You were?” She asks. “Did the sight make you swear off private parcel services forevermore?”

Sleuth leans back. “Aren’t you being a little morbid about all of this? A man’s dead, and somebody killed him.” Sleuth playfully scolds. “And I don’t think the quality of his service had to do with why he got a bullet in his gut.”

“Don’tcha think if he was any good at his job he wouldn’t be dead in a dumpster?”

“Now, now, now,” Sleuth says. “That’s blaming the victim. Maybe I should tell Anarchy Repressor he should start looking into fanatical mailworkers as potential suspects.” He jokes.

Maillady puts a hand to her mouth in feigned shock. “You’ve caught me, Problem Sleuth. I surrender. Cuff me.” She says, offering her wrists.

Sleuth smirks. “Maybe later. What do you have for me?”

Maillady rummages through her messenger bag. “A few letters, a few complaints, a few checks.” She picks up the large package she brought in and hands it to Problem Sleuth. “And this.”

Sleuth looks it over. He finds a card. “What is it?”

“Open it up.” She urges.

Problem Sleuth: Examine suspicious package.

The card says happy birthday. You have no idea what a birthday is, nor why anybody would want to be wishing you one.

On the other side it says it’s from Spades Slick.

You think you hear ticking.

PS: Open package.

It’s a time bomb! And it’s almost at zero! This is some birthday present.

Persevering Maillady is laughing up a storm. “You look real hardboiled hiding under your desk like that, Sleuth.” She laughs.

Problem Sleuth peeks up from under his desk, staring hellfury at the incorrigible prankster mailwoman.

“Relax, I disarmed it before I got here.” She says, looking over the sticks of dynamite attached to an alarm clock. She haphazardly throws it back in the box, causing Sleuth to startle. “Don’t worry, I know the return address.” She gives a wicked grin.

Problem Sleuth gets back in his chair. “What’s with all the women I know trying to kill me?” He says aloud, shaking his head.

A light knock on the door catches Sleuth’s attention. “Come in!” He shouts. He puts a cigarette in his mouth.

The door swings open slowly, and white carapaced woman walks in. She’s tall, she’s wearing a fur coat over a stunning white dress, she’s got ankle bracelets on legs that seem to go on forever and an expensive leather purse hanging from her shoulder. Sleuth’s cigarette falls out of his mouth.

Persevering Maillady: Leave in a jealous huff.

You double take between the woman who just walked in and this idiot’s dumbstruck face over and over. So that’s how it is.

You say here’s the rest of the mail and throw it in Sleuth’s face. He blinks but his expression remains unchanged.

You walk to the door and shout goodbye Sleuth before slamming it shut.

==>

Oh, shoot. You forgot the time bomb. You walk back in in a fury, grab it off his desk, and say that you forgot it to hopefully save some face and not look completely embarrassed in the process, and slam the door again on your way out.

Problem Sleuth wasn’t stunned that an incredibly beautiful woman had just walked into his door. That wasn’t it at all. Plenty of beautiful dames had walked into his office and he only stared slack-jawed at the first. He was stunned because it had been a long time since Sleuth had last seen this woman in person. And not five years or ten or twenty. A real long time.

“Problem Sleuth?” She asks in an enunciated alto.

Sleuth stands up out of his chair immediately. “Yes. Wha-“ The word doesn’t seem to want to get out of Sleuth’s mouth. “What can I do for you?”

Problem Sleuth: Kneel before her majesty.

She’s not anybody’s majesty any more. Not in a formal sense. You’ve got a well-trained instinct to want to kneel, and it’s getting tough to resist.

“Can we sit down?” She asks.

The question comes as a complete relief. “Of course. Please.” Sleuth motions to the chair opposite the desk as he takes a seat. Problem Sleuth takes a deep breath. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s Wealthy Quantifier now.” She replies.

“Right. I know that.” Problem Sleuth remembers. Maybe at some point he won’t be stunned wreck. “I’ve seen you in the paper before, at big charity balls and things like that.” He says. “What can I do for you?”

“I require the services of a highly skilled private detective.” Wealthy Quantifier says. “All the others I talked to claimed they were the best, but none of the major gangs talk about them.” She says with a hint of contempt. “They do talk about you, however. Are you as skilled as I am led to believe by the scorn of your peers and enemies alike?”

Sleuth’s smirk is growing by the second. She really knows how to butter a guy up, to push all the right buttons. “Yeah, that’s me. You came to the right place. I am the top problem sleuth in the city. That’s no exaggeration.”

“Excellent.” She says.

“But if you’ll excuse my frankness,” Sleuth says.

“Of course.”

“I don’t like getting flattered when business is involved. Makes me think a client’s going to try and stiff me for money. Or try to get me to take on something suicidal.” Problem Sleuth says, and feels a little ashamed about the backtalk.

Wealthy Quantifier pauses. “If you’ll accept my sincerest apologies, I’ll get to the point.” She says. “I’ve lost something very important to me, and I need you to find it. I am willing to pay very handsomely for its return.”

Sleuth flips open a notebook and grabs a pen. “Alright.” He says. “Can you describe what I’m supposed to be looking for?”

“I cannot.”

Sleuth looks up from the paper. “What?”

“I misspoke.” Wealthy Quantifier says. “I will not. I regret that I must apologize to you again, but I am not comfortable describing the object... so publicly.”

Sleuth flips closed the notebook in annoyance. “How do you expect me to find your mystery object if I don’t know what it is? That’s a pretty basic necessity as far as private detectiving goes.”

“I understand completely.” She slowly and deliberately adjusts the fur coat around her neck. Sleuth can’t help but notice as the coat moves around her chest. “I do have a way for you to find it, however.”

Sleuth sighs.

She pulls a set of keys from her purse. “These are the keys to my home.” She hands a pile of various handguns and tommygu- oh wait, these just stay keys. She hands them to Sleuth. “You should be able to identify the object once there. If you are as good as you say you are.” She says with a subdued smile.

Sleuth flips the keys around his finger. “I’m not a fan of scavenger hunts.”

“How about scavenger hunts that pay well?” She pulls a check book from her purse and a pen. She writes a check and leaves it on the desk. “I understand your normal fee is twenty five dollars per day on the case. I will pay you double in addition to the amount here.” She taps the check. “Would that convince you to look into it for me?”

Sleuth gives a forced smile. “For that much I’d dance in a tutu.” He says, hoping she doesn’t take him up on the offer. “Alright, I’ll look into it. If I do find anything, how am I supposed to get in contact with you?”

She scribbles down a quick set of numbers on an errant scrap of paper. “I will be out of town for several days. Call this number if you discover anything.” She slides the paper over to Sleuth’s hand. He stashes it in his pants pocket. Wealthy Quantifier stands up out of her seat. “I believe our business here is concluded.” She says.

Sleuth escorts her to the door and opens it for her. “I’ll let you know what I find.” He hesitates, then extends his hand. She shakes it in return.

“I wish you luck in your search.” Wealthy Quantifier leaves and Sleuth closes the door behind her.

Problem Sleuth walks to his desk and looks at the check she left. He steps back a bit. She must really want whatever it is found.

Problem Sleuth: Focus on your most profitable cases.

You need to clear your case load. If a dame wants to pay you five hundred dollars up front to go snooping around her house for missing objects then you better focus all your attention on that.

...but you can’t let that murder go unsolved, since Anarchy Repressor does want you to look into it. He starts putting the pressure on if you don’t work for him. Pro bono, of course, the cheap bastard.

Problem Sleuth: Call Ace Dick.

The phone rings a few times. Maybe he can take some of your cases.

Nobody picks up. He must be out working some of his own cases. Or his phone’s dead. Both wouldn’t really surprise you.

Problem Sleuth: Call Pickle Inspector.

He picks up after three rings and says that it’s Pickle Inspector, and that he also inspects more than just pickles. You ask why he doesn’t change his name to something that doesn’t sound ridiculous and need explanation every time he picks up the phone. He says he likes his name.

You tell him that you got a really important case that you just got, and you need to clear your workload. He says sure, what can he do to help. You tell him you’ve got a few cases that are right up his alley. Lots of disconcerting ogling and picture taking, and he doesn’t even have to rough anybody up or get into any shoot outs. He agrees that those do sound right up his alley, and that he’ll be over in a second to pick up the case files.

You tell him that you owe him one, and that one of these days he should call in the favor sometime because you feel guilty about doing this to him all the time. He says that’s not necessary since he just refers cases that sound violent to you anyway but he thanks you for the offer. He hangs up.

Problem Sleuth pulls the case files out of a filing cabinet as Pickle Inspector stoops down into the office. “Hello, Problem Sleuth.” He greets cheerily as he takes his hat off.

“Hey there,” Sleuth says. Sleuth walks over and hands them to Inspector.

“Thanks, Sleuth.” Pickle Inspector says. “How is the Dame?”

“Hysterical.” Sleuth gives a half-smile. “How’s the Broad?”

“Nervous.” He replies. He nods and turns to leave before remembering something. "Did you receive a peculiar phone call a week or so ago?"

Problem Sleuth thinks back. "Not that I can say. Why?"

"No reason." He ducks under the door frame and leaves.

Problem Sleuth stuffs his hands into his pockets for a moment as he thinks about what to do. Then he throws on his coat, stuffs the address to Murdered Courier’s apartment into its pocket, grabs his key, and walks out.

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I thought I'd get farther for Part 2, but nope. Yap yap yap yap yap. All anybody's done so far in this fic is talk. When is the action going to start?

Persevering Maillady is a bad ass. If I wanted to I could probably write several lighthearted adventures featuring her struggles with delivering the mail in a town run by gangsters. Full of, like, explosions, and bomb defusing, and shit.

And making the events of Problem Sleuth a dispute over rent makes me giggle incessantly, and is the only reason I included it.

[anonymousComrade]

@Septimus: I lol'd, at the callback to canon and the Fight Club reference

Still working on this second Karkat/Terezi thing, by the way

Another quick preview:

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He figured sticking around for a while here meant he didn't have to deal with his crab lusus back home for a little while longer, so he had no real intention of turning down Terezi's invitation. He just liked to tease her back when he could. Terezi was kind of cute on the rare occasion he could actually get her flustered.

Of course, he was thoroughly and decisively one-upped in that department, forever, when she came back holding a goddamned bucket.

I know what it looks like but I swear to God this isn't porn of any sort, it is all innocent funtimes I swear and by the end of it all of you will d'awwww so hard your jaws will explode

Err I mean "no wait it's godawful, don't read it I write terrible fiction, just terrible"

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I've noticed that the quality of the things I produce tends to be inversely proportional to how much I like them upon completing them

[Doodled]

Since nobody really seems to care about an epilogue for the Murder Mystery...

How about some more Homestar/Homestuck crossover?

Free-Country-Stuck Part 3

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> Be the main character.

You are still Strong Bad.

> The other main character.

You are now this guy.

> ENTER NAME...

> Humphel McDorkle

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

NO!

Try again.

> Homestar Runner

You are HOMESTAR RUNNER.

You have a variety of INTERESTS that anybody who GIVES A CRAP would ALREADY KNOW ABOUT.

Your chumhandle is marshmallowEnthusiast, and you speak with an adowable speech impediment.

Why come you not do something already?

> Homestar: Pester Stro-Bro.

You don't know his chumhandle yet!

However, you do know this one guy...

SHOW PESTERLOG

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-- marshmallowEnthusiast [ME] began pestering prominentSpheroid [PS] --

ME: Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey POM-POM!
PS: bubblebubblebubblebubbbubblebbububbububblebubble
ME: Yeah man.
PS: bububbubblebbububbububblebubble
ME: Yeah, Woundy Man! I totally got that game you sent me!
PS: bubblebub?
ME: SEWIOUSLY, MAN. Sooooooooooooooooooo cool!
PS: bubblebubbubblebubblebubble...
ME: What?!
ME: Well, ah... Yeah!
ME: Yeah, I'm definitely playing that game wight now.
ME: Yep.
ME: SEWIOUSLY.
PS: bubblebubblebubblebubbbubblebbububbububblebubblebu ubbblebubblebubububble
PS: bubblebubblebubbubble
ME: um...
ME: Okay, you caught me.
ME: But don't worry, I'll install it wight now!

True to your word, you pop the disc into your computer and start the loadin'!

> Homestar: Be Bubs.

Homestar cannot be Bubs as obviously Homsar is too busy being Coach Z!

You are now COACH Z. Your chumhandle is freestylingTrainer, and ya like to rap on the jorb!

> No. Switch to someone else.

You are still COACH Z.

> Please.

You are definitely COACH Z.

> No, anybody but him!

COACH.

Z.

> PLEASE!!!

YOU ARE MOTHERFUCKING COACH Z!

What will you do?

> Examine surroundings.

The towels drip with a dampness you've come to known over the years.

The splats of the water are your only company during the lonely days between practices.

Luckily, this laptop that you uncharacteristically "borrowed" works fine with connecting with the outside world.

It warmly hums in your lap.

You've just finished installing Pesterchum.

The disc that Bubs sent you lies next to you on your bench/bed.

> Troll someone.

You do not know how to troll.

Hell, you're not even quite sure what it means...

> Pester someone.

Now THAT, you can manage.

In fact...

SHOW PESTERLOG

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-- freestylingTrainer [FT] began pestering deviousCharlatan [DC] --

FT: Hey tha Chort!
DC: Wat is UP mah MOTHA-BROTHA COACH ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!
DC: dawg.
FT: Drop some phat beats down for me, will ya?
DC: Hell maybe DAWG.
DC: BUT are YAH gonna do some of yo...
DC: FREE-STYLIN'?!
FT: Yep!
FT: A-one-two, A-two-one,
FT: A-ONE-ONE-TWO-TWO

-- deviousCharlatan [DC] blocked freestylingTrainer [FT] --

"Aw crahp..."

Comments:

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I just got back from setting up my AO3 archive and I am sick of editing HTML. Felt like actually writing something, so have this way-too-small to be a chapter pesterlog.

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caligulasAquarium [CA] began trolling grimAuxiliatrix [GA]

CA: hey, kan, havve you thought about my offer
GA: I Am Afraid I Still Do Not Fully Comprehend The Premise Of The Organization You Are Attempting To Create
CA: wwhat’s not to comprehend
CA: it’s a rejected by humans club and it is pretty much wwhat it sounds like
CA: i think wwe can all agree that you’re going to be qualified to join sooner or later so i’m wwilling to wwavve the requirements right now
GA: I Am Sure I Have No Idea What You’re Talking About
CA: kan trust me on this
CA: as the prince of hope i am uniquely qualified to determine when there is no hope left
CA: and you havve no hope wwith the human girl
CA: so you might as wwell join the club noww and savve yourself the hassle
GA: And Who Would Be Keeping Us Company In This Club
GA: Might I Ask
CA: right now its me and tav
CA: kar said he didn’t want to join but i'm sure he wwill change his mind once wwe get enough people
CA: and betwween you and me i think terezi wwill join us eventually
CA: and maybe vriska
CA: i think
CA: i don’t know
GA: I Feel Like You Have Possibly Created A Solution In Search Of A Problem
CA: wwell if that’s the wway you feel
CA: then howw about joinin the mad at vriska club instead
GA: And Who Is In That Prestigious Organization
CA: wwell i sort of just made it up
CA: but i’m pretty sure wwe’re not going to have problems with membership
CA: except maybe wwith beatin excess ones from the doors
GA: I Will Admit The Premise Of Your Club Intrigues Me
GA: I Wish To Know More
CA: all right but you should knoww
CA: the first rule of the club is don’t talk to vvriska about the club
CA: keep your mouth clammed up
GA: And The Second Rule
CA: i wwil admit i am not that far yet
CA: listen let me think for a wwhile and get back to you at this point of time
GA: I Will Eagerly Await Your Call

caligulasAquarium [CA] ceased trolling grimAuxiliatrix [GA]

Pretty cool, except the colors got all off...

I need to catch up on some fics, but I've got Part 2 written and am posting it now.

Also, there's a correction I need to make for Part 1, for those of you following along. The murdered man is a courier, and PS and AR are supposed to find that out, so that's been edited in.

The Sapphire of Alternia, Part 2

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Problem Sleuth gets out of bed four hours later without a single minute of sleep. He sighs and gets ready for work. After showering and throwing on a fresh pair of clothes he rides the bus to his office.

The door is unlocked, which is no surprise since every time Problem Sleuth tries to lock a door he just blows the lock off for some reason.

He walks inside and turns on the light and ceiling fan and opens the blinds to the window. It’s an actual window. Not one that leads into a crazy imagination land. After Mobster Kingpin died the building was remodeled to better serve the needs of its heroic private detectives, and to give it Euclidean geometry.

Problem Sleuth: Fondly regard group picture.

That was a hell of an adventure. Although you probably should have seen it coming. When your landlord is the main suspect in every case you take, you tend to drop your cases to retain your office. And without cases you can’t pay rent.

What happened was the obvious logical conclusion to that conflict.

Problem Sleuth sits down in his chair and pulls the Mysterious Carapace’s wallet from his coat and puts it on the desk. He opens the wallet and looks at the driver’s license. “Well, Movement Contractor, looks like you’re now Murdered Courier.” Problem Sleuth tears a page out of a notebook and scribbles down the address.

The door to the office opens, and a woman with a white blouse and blue skirt walks in. She’s got a messenger bag full of mail on her side and pressed between her body and arm is a newspaper and a large package. “Can you believe this?” Persevering Maillady asks, kicking the door closed behind her. She puts all her loose items on Problem Sleuth’s desk and sits cross-legged on it. “This is why you should always go with the post office.” She says as she tosses the newspaper in front of him.

Courier found dead in dumpster; police have no leads. And the caption beneath the photo of the chalk outline: call Anarchy Repressor if you have any information. “I know. I was there.”

Persevering Maillady turns her head with surprised eyes. “You were?” She asks. “Did the sight make you swear off private parcel services forevermore?”

Sleuth leans back. “Aren’t you being a little morbid about all of this? A man’s dead, and somebody killed him.” Sleuth playfully scolds. “And I don’t think the quality of his service had to do with why he got a bullet in his gut.”

“Don’tcha think if he was any good at his job he wouldn’t be dead in a dumpster?”

“Now, now, now,” Sleuth says. “That’s blaming the victim. Maybe I should tell Anarchy Repressor he should start looking into fanatical mailworkers as potential suspects.” He jokes.

Maillady puts a hand to her mouth in feigned shock. “You’ve caught me, Problem Sleuth. I surrender. Cuff me.” She says, offering her wrists.

Sleuth smirks. “Maybe later. What do you have for me?”

Maillady rummages through her messenger bag. “A few letters, a few complaints, a few checks.” She picks up the large package she brought in and hands it to Problem Sleuth. “And this.”

Sleuth looks it over. He finds a card. “What is it?”

“Open it up.” She urges.

Problem Sleuth: Examine suspicious package.

The card says happy birthday. You have no idea what a birthday is, nor why anybody would want to be wishing you one.

On the other side it says it’s from Spades Slick.

You think you hear ticking.

PS: Open package.

It’s a time bomb! And it’s almost at zero! This is some birthday present.

Persevering Maillady is laughing up a storm. “You look real hardboiled hiding under your desk like that, Sleuth.” She laughs.

Problem Sleuth peeks up from under his desk, staring hellfury at the incorrigible prankster mailwoman.

“Relax, I disarmed it before I got here.” She says, looking over the sticks of dynamite attached to an alarm clock. She haphazardly throws it back in the box, causing Sleuth to startle. “Don’t worry, I know the return address.” She gives a wicked grin.

Problem Sleuth gets back in his chair. “What’s with all the women I know trying to kill me?” He says aloud, shaking his head.

A light knock on the door catches Sleuth’s attention. “Come in!” He shouts. He puts a cigarette in his mouth.

The door swings open slowly, and white carapaced woman walks in. She’s tall, she’s wearing a fur coat over a stunning white dress, she’s got ankle bracelets on legs that seem to go on forever and an expensive leather purse hanging from her shoulder. Sleuth’s cigarette falls out of his mouth.

Persevering Maillady: Leave in a jealous huff.

You double take between the woman who just walked in and this idiot’s dumbstruck face over and over. So that’s how it is.

You say here’s the rest of the mail and throw it in Sleuth’s face. He blinks but his expression remains unchanged.

You walk to the door and shout goodbye Sleuth before slamming it shut.

==>

Oh, shoot. You forgot the time bomb. You walk back in in a fury, grab it off his desk, and say that you forgot it to hopefully save some face and not look completely embarrassed in the process, and slam the door again on your way out.

Problem Sleuth wasn’t stunned that an incredibly beautiful woman had just walked into his door. That wasn’t it at all. Plenty of beautiful dames had walked into his office and he only stared slack-jawed at the first. He was stunned because it had been a long time since Sleuth had last seen this woman in person. And not five years or ten or twenty. A real long time.

“Problem Sleuth?” She asks in an enunciated alto.

Sleuth stands up out of his chair immediately. “Yes. Wha-“ The word doesn’t seem to want to get out of Sleuth’s mouth. “What can I do for you?”

Problem Sleuth: Kneel before her majesty.

She’s not anybody’s majesty any more. Not in a formal sense. You’ve got a well-trained instinct to want to kneel, and it’s getting tough to resist.

“Can we sit down?” She asks.

The question comes as a complete relief. “Of course. Please.” Sleuth motions to the chair opposite the desk as he takes a seat. Problem Sleuth takes a deep breath. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s Wealthy Quantifier now.” She replies.

“Right. I know that.” Problem Sleuth remembers. Maybe at some point he won’t be stunned wreck. “I’ve seen you in the paper before, at big charity balls and things like that.” He says. “What can I do for you?”

“I require the services of a highly skilled private detective.” Wealthy Quantifier says. “All the others I talked to claimed they were the best, but none of the major gangs talk about them.” She says with a hint of contempt. “They do talk about you, however. Are you as skilled as I am led to believe by the scorn of your peers and enemies alike?”

Sleuth’s smirk is growing by the second. She really knows how to butter a guy up, to push all the right buttons. “Yeah, that’s me. You came to the right place. I am the top problem sleuth in the city. That’s no exaggeration.”

“Excellent.” She says.

“But if you’ll excuse my frankness,” Sleuth says.

“Of course.”

“I don’t like getting flattered when business is involved. Makes me think a client’s going to try and stiff me for money. Or try to get me to take on something suicidal.” Problem Sleuth says, and feels a little ashamed about the backtalk.

Wealthy Quantifier pauses. “If you’ll accept my sincerest apologies, I’ll get to the point.” She says. “I’ve lost something very important to me, and I need you to find it. I am willing to pay very handsomely for its return.”

Sleuth flips open a notebook and grabs a pen. “Alright.” He says. “Can you describe what I’m supposed to be looking for?”

“I cannot.”

Sleuth looks up from the paper. “What?”

“I misspoke.” Wealthy Quantifier says. “I will not. I regret that I must apologize to you again, but I am not comfortable describing the object... so publicly.”

Sleuth flips closed the notebook in annoyance. “How do you expect me to find your mystery object if I don’t know what it is? That’s a pretty basic necessity as far as private detectiving goes.”

“I understand completely.” She slowly and deliberately adjusts the fur coat around her neck. Sleuth can’t help but notice as the coat moves around her chest. “I do have a way for you to find it, however.”

Sleuth sighs.

She pulls a set of keys from her purse. “These are the keys to my home.” She hands a pile of various handguns and tommygu- oh wait, these just stay keys. She hands them to Sleuth. “You should be able to identify the object once there. If you are as good as you say you are.” She says with a subdued smile.

Sleuth flips the keys around his finger. “I’m not a fan of scavenger hunts.”

“How about scavenger hunts that pay well?” She pulls a check book from her purse and a pen. She writes a check and leaves it on the desk. “I understand your normal fee is twenty five dollars per day on the case. I will pay you double in addition to the amount here.” She taps the check. “Would that convince you to look into it for me?”

Sleuth gives a forced smile. “For that much I’d dance in a tutu.” He says, hoping she doesn’t take him up on the offer. “Alright, I’ll look into it. If I do find anything, how am I supposed to get in contact with you?”

She scribbles down a quick set of numbers on an errant scrap of paper. “I will be out of town for several days. Call this number if you discover anything.” She slides the paper over to Sleuth’s hand. He stashes it in his pants pocket. Wealthy Quantifier stands up out of her seat. “I believe our business here is concluded.” She says.

Sleuth escorts her to the door and opens it for her. “I’ll let you know what I find.” He hesitates, then extends his hand. She shakes it in return.

“I wish you luck in your search.” Wealthy Quantifier leaves and Sleuth closes the door behind her.

Problem Sleuth walks to his desk and looks at the check she left. He steps back a bit. She must really want whatever it is found.

Problem Sleuth: Focus on your most profitable cases.

You need to clear your case load. If a dame wants to pay you five hundred dollars up front to go snooping around her house for missing objects then you better focus all your attention on that.

...but you can’t let that murder go unsolved, since Anarchy Repressor does want you to look into it. He starts putting the pressure on if you don’t work for him. Pro bono, of course, the cheap bastard.

Problem Sleuth: Call Ace Dick.

The phone rings a few times. Maybe he can take some of your cases.

Nobody picks up. He must be out working some of his own cases. Or his phone’s dead. Both wouldn’t really surprise you.

Problem Sleuth: Call Pickle Inspector.

He picks up after three rings and says that it’s Pickle Inspector, and that he also inspects more than just pickles. You ask why he doesn’t change his name to something that doesn’t sound ridiculous and need explanation every time he picks up the phone. He says he likes his name.

You tell him that you got a really important case that you just got, and you need to clear your workload. He says sure, what can he do to help. You tell him you’ve got a few cases that are right up his alley. Lots of disconcerting ogling and picture taking, and he doesn’t even have to rough anybody up or get into any shoot outs. He agrees that those do sound right up his alley, and that he’ll be over in a second to pick up the case files.

You tell him that you owe him one, and that one of these days he should call in the favor sometime because you feel guilty about doing this to him all the time. He says that’s not necessary since he just refers cases that sound violent to you anyway but he thanks you for the offer. He hangs up.

Problem Sleuth pulls the case files out of a filing cabinet as Pickle Inspector stoops down into the office. “Hello, Problem Sleuth.” He greets cheerily as he takes his hat off.

“Hey there,” Sleuth says. Sleuth walks over and hands them to Inspector.

“Thanks, Sleuth.” Pickle Inspector says. “How is the Dame?”

“Hysterical.” Sleuth gives a half-smile. “How’s the Broad?”

“Nervous.” He replies. He nods and turns to leave before remembering something. "Did you receive a peculiar phone call a week or so ago?"

Problem Sleuth thinks back. "Not that I can say. Why?"

"No reason." He ducks under the door frame and leaves.

Problem Sleuth stuffs his hands into his pockets for a moment as he thinks about what to do. Then he throws on his coat, stuffs the address to Murdered Courier’s apartment into its pocket, grabs his key, and walks out.

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I thought I'd get farther for Part 2, but nope. Yap yap yap yap yap. All anybody's done so far in this fic is talk. When is the action going to start?

Persevering Maillady is a bad ass. If I wanted to I could probably write several lighthearted adventures featuring her struggles with delivering the mail in a town run by gangsters. Full of, like, explosions, and bomb defusing, and shit.

And making the events of Problem Sleuth a dispute over rent makes me giggle incessantly, and is the only reason I included it.

@Septimus: I lol'd, at the callback to canon and the Fight Club reference

Still working on this second Karkat/Terezi thing, by the way

Another quick preview:

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He figured sticking around for a while here meant he didn't have to deal with his crab lusus back home for a little while longer, so he had no real intention of turning down Terezi's invitation. He just liked to tease her back when he could. Terezi was kind of cute on the rare occasion he could actually get her flustered.

Of course, he was thoroughly and decisively one-upped in that department, forever, when she came back holding a goddamned bucket.

I know what it looks like but I swear to God this isn't porn of any sort, it is all innocent funtimes I swear and by the end of it all of you will d'awwww so hard your jaws will explode

Err I mean "no wait it's godawful, don't read it I write terrible fiction, just terrible"

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I've noticed that the quality of the things I produce tends to be inversely proportional to how much I like them upon completing them

*waits with growing anticipation*

[The Cool]

hey

hey guys

hey

hey you guys

hey you

hey

stop ignoring my fic

also i wanna see more freecountrystuck

[apocalypticCritic]

@ Jim: Stop being so awesome. Seriously. I am filled with impotent jealousy.

Also Postal Mistress has a bondage kink. Who knew?

@ The Cool: Now that's just annoying. You're being like Navi, but at least Navi let you aim at stuff.

Thatbeingsaid, I thought it was an intriguing beginning, if a bit... lacking in any sort of context.

Also what's the point of putting immortals in peril. That's why I can't get into the Vampire Genre: you have to swallow a lot of crap to believe that they are in any sort of real danger.

[Doodled]

hey
hey guys
hey
hey you guys
hey you
hey
stop ignoring my fic
also i wanna see more freecountrystuck

*stops ignoring*

Lol. Pretty schweet.

Except, I'm having trouble figuring out who is who... :P

Also, thanks.

[Portalboat]

So a quick-little oneshot, and also my first fanfic:

Island Hopping

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A startling war cry pierced the silence of the island. Birds flew as a great number of muti-colored natives chased the interloper down the land masses’ numerous beaches.

‘What the hell have I done?’ the said interloper thought, as he looked at the artifact in his hand. It was a once green metal frog. But time and numerous ‘burnings’ by the tribes had stripped it of its color. But whatever it was, it was clearly important. In fact, the very reason he had come to this island was to find it. You see, he needed it for something. Something very important, that he was told would end, and thus create, the world. The time for reminiscing had past, however. He had reached his destination.

He STRONGJUMPED back onto the skiff. As it was chugging away, he saw fit to yell this: “Gentlemen! You will always remember this day as the day you almost caught Captain! Has-”
Splash.
“harley.”

Later a movie would be made, and include this very scene.

[emesis]

@Jim


^ This is pretty much me whenever you post something.

[The Cool]

i would have colored the text but...

-looks at sig-

EDIT ninjad by fic

[lucidSeraph]

hey

hey guys

hey

hey you guys

hey you

hey

stop ignoring my fic

also i wanna see more freecountrystuck

Don't yell at people not to ignore your fic. Sometimes stuff doesn't get seen. Sometimes even the most prolific authors on this thread get ignored.

Be patient, keep posting; link your stuff in your sig or whatever.

[The Cool]

might as well continue

Desolation: Reversed

1.2

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"I'll send you the dot torrent file."
"Aiight."
He went over to his computer. Well, not really HIS computer. Everyting here belonged to Ej. Everything that WASN'T here belonged to Jack. That's just how inheritance works when the population of the world legally goes down to one. Anyway, he grabbed the file and started leeching it off Ej.
Looking at the side of the sreen, he noticed a grand total of four leechers besides himself.
This brought up a few thoughts. Does this mean the twins aren't playing? Is having a physical computer important or are they just not interested?
He dismissed the ideas. If it was important, Ej would explain it.
Turning his attention back to the torrent, he noticed: this game was huge. Twelve hours remaining?
On EJ'S network?
Jesus Christ.

A/N

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Looks like thisll be all tiny snippets.

[Jim Groovester]

@ Jim: Stop being so awesome. Seriously. I am filled with impotent jealousy.

Also Postal Mistress has a bondage kink. Who knew?

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The door to Persevering Maillady's bedroom bursts open. Silhouetted against the light is Problem Sleuth. Is he taller and broader?

He steps forward. "Persevering Maillady, I have finally realized that your constant flirting with me is in fact perfectly sincere. I also have broken up with Hysterical Dame because she is hysterical. I am now willing to realize that I am hopelessly in love with you."

"Oh, Sleuth!" Maillady says, grasping her hands together.

He steps forward again. "I think it is time I put you away," He pulls out some handcuffs. "Because you have been a very bad girl."

PM: Wake up.

Oh, dammit. You had that dream again. You wish you didn't specifically look for all of Problem Sleuth's mail and make his office your first stop even though it isn't anywhere near your route, because this is getting ridiculous.

Yes, I suppose that could be considered a bondage kink, but I was thinking that she's just flirting with him.

Expressing my thanks through fics is probably going to become prohibitive at some point. In any case, thank you.

@Jim


^ This is pretty much me whenever you post something.

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Persevering Maillady hides behind an upturned table. She peeks over it, and ducks quickly as Diamonds Droog's fire pins her down.

A grenade rolls to her feet, and she panics, leaping out from cover and dashing behind a roulette table as it explodes. She's so close. She just has this one piece of mail left to deliver, and then she can go home.

Hearts Boxcars comes up from behind her, and as he reaches she scrambles on to the table. She throws her hands to cover her face as Droog narrowly misses her.

She sprints the final distance towards the back exit, and leaps head first through a door Clubs Deuce is closing.

She lands face first on the floor with her outstretched hand holding the piece of mail, touching the shoes of its recipient. He bends over and picks it up. She looks up to see his reaction.

"Will you accept it?" She asks.

Spades Slick grunts. "listen lady" He grunts. "this junk mail is a scam the crew sent out; you dont have to deliver it back to us"

"But it's addressed to you!" She says with pleading eyes.

Slick ignores her and walks back to the casino floor. "droog why am i on our own mailing list? you know how much i hate junkmail"

Clubs Deuce helps Persevering Maillady up and leads her out the building. Today was a good day. A good day, for

MAIL!

Thank you, you are awesome.

Oh, damn. Missed this.

Thank you, and have a mini fic.

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Problem Sleuth looks out his window. He sees a car driving by and a man walking an ugly dog.

He has flash backs to when he was trapped in his office. He hides under his desk, telling himself over and over again that it's really real, that it's really real, but it doesn't help.

[Path]

Tiny fic as comment thanks- so cute. As usual, I loved all of it- especially, however, the bit about the rent problems. That was especially great.

My brain rebelled after writing A Talk With Dick- not angsty enough. Too much humour. Time for some unabashedly angry Slick/Snowman, written under the influence of Dead Shuffle, Three in the Morning, and Liquid Negrocity.


Just Like Next Time

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The club's dark, as always. Dim light pours smoky through the windows, caught in the cigarettes of your patrons. You're not in the back, as usual, tonight, but seated up on the small stage you had built discreetly off to one side. Also unlike most nights, your eyes are closed and your teeth not bared. You're not even wearing your hat.

'Cause tonight, you saw her, and you've got some grief to get off your chest. It's this or slice somebody up 'til they bleed out, and you're lamentably short of dumbass trespassing assholes on this evening.

It was just in passing, or would be with anybody else. Just a moment, a glance across the room, but in the second or ten or eternity in which you met each others' eyes, your heart seized up with bitter fury and envy and a dozen other emotions defying description and there was nothing else in the world. Nothing but jealousy and outrage and overwhelming desire for her, and you hate it just like you hate her, with a singular focus that sinks the rest of the world in black.

You met her eyes like a punch to the chest, cracking ribs and driving the breath from your gut. She blinked once, slowly, meeting your eye surely with no searching, and then just held you forever in the morass of bitter fury. Just like last time, and like the time before, and just like next time.

You can't lose yourself entirely in the feeling of smooth keys under your fingertips, in harmonic minor melodies seeping out into the world from somewhere beyond your conscious memory. They're songs you must have devoted yourself to learning, once. Now you just play. The right stuff comes.

The room is uneasy, patrons mingling and pausing conversation as you play. They can feel the emotion draining from you, sifting into the air with their cigarette smoke and the notes. They'll all go home unsettled, disturbed, and lie in bed awake. That's what you want. In that, at least, you won't be alone.

Somebody stupid once asked you what it was about her, and you probably took off their arm or head as an answer. Nobody talks to you about Snowman. That's not a thing that happens.

For the record, though, you pour out into the room, it's the way she sets herself against you. The way she denies you everything you make up your mind to want. It's the coat pulled snug against her curves and her hat's shade over her eyes. The notes meld into frantic minor arpeggios and your patrons stop everything, watching you bang at the keys and make them, at least, do what you want.

It's the way she moves, black silk on a bare arm and then a scorpion's strike. It's her voice, molasses soft and dark, smooth and lazy and completely untouched. All you can do is bare your teeth and snarl at her, but she's always got words. Distant words, easy words. She says your name.

She gave you your name.

And despite it, she's not yours. She's still his. For all her coy looks and burning eyes and slow laugh, she's still English's, and no matter what's happened between you, she'll only ever play at being yours. You torture the keys, slim fingers hitting, slipping without thought into melodic and driving the song even a little further away from a complete sound. You know, more than see, Droog appear at the door to the back. He stands silently and still and watches you calmly as you rage at the baby grand and at her.

Your hands gripping her hips, her hair, her wrists, and her laughing softly in your ear and taunting you, always taunting you. Her lips on yours, urgent and immediate and drowning the rest of the world in nothingness. There's nothing but you two. There's nothing but her. Droog is walking slowly over to the stage.

The rest of the world blanks out blissfully at last as you reach a variation that finally expresses it. Notes clear and urgent and drawing you. You haven't played this one before. Variation for Snowman. The only thing in your mind, the only thing in the world. Droog stands at the front of the stage and watches you, but you filter him out without effort, the world spinning in around you as you mangle the melody with accidentals.

Because you hate her, you fume impotently at her for the way she treats you, the way she toys with you, the way she acts like it's you that belongs to her, and not the other way around. It's not the other way around. And you still want her. You wanted her before, now. Forever.

You crash to a finale in a flurry of intentional aharmonics and broken chords, standing and shoving the piano stool back and over on one side, storming down the stairs through silent ranks of shocked customers. Droog waits for you to pass, and follows you. He'll come to the back and stand outside your door when you slam it in his face, and when you emerge in the morning, growling and stubborn, he'll make sure you've got breakfast and a car ready.

Just like last time. And like the time before. And just like next time.

[Jim Groovester]

@Path: Has anyone told you you're a good writer? I think they have. Count me among the people who think so.

@Portalboat: You got any more? I could go for some more Grandpa Harley, Strongman Adventurer fics.

[Red Pen]

So here is a thing I wrote about what might have led Gamzee to believe that he is two clowns.

Monochrome

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He's starting to lose the colors.

It's been a while since he had a pie... a few days, maybe? There's no more sopor in his hive, or in the intertwining mystery of his sylladex, or on his dark carnival of a world. He's not sure how to alchemize more; the hulking white machines don't make any sense to him. The others can make them work, send him codes, and walk him through the process if they have time. His best friend Karkat set up a memo with step-by-step instructions specifically for him, but he keeps forgetting how to find it.

He hasn't told the others yet. No need to bother them. He's sure they'd ask him if it was something they needed to know.

But eventually, he needs them to know. He's starting to lose the colors.

When they're making plans to face the Black King, gaining some last minute levels and alchemizing more powerful gear out of the legendary quest items they keep swapping around, he pulls Karkat aside and mentions that he's got a headache. Karkat scowls at him, annoyed, always annoyed, and tells him to stop whining and go fill his Heath Vial. It's not his Health Vial, he tries to explain. It's not part of the game. The colors are missing and his head just hurts.

And Karkat knows it's the sopor; everyone knows its the sopor. Power through it, he says, in words not quite so eloquent. It's your own fault for eating that stuff in the first place. You'll get over it. You'll be fine.

Of course he'll be fine, if Karkat says so. If you can't trust your friends to look out for you, who can you trust? So he keeps going on with a smile on his face, and ignores the headache and the nausea and the way the world is turning monochrome.

And when he thinks he's got time and nobody will mind, he closes his eyes and prays that it'll be over soon. Prayer feels strangely alien, without so much fog in his head. As if he can almost see where the words are going.

- - - - - - - - - -

The howling of the King hurts his ears. Everything hurts his ears now, everything is too loud and too sharp and too bright, but this howl is different; this is a sound that he knows hurts everyone else's ears too.

He can see the psionics in the sky, Aradia's gleaming metal army taking the full force of the King's voice for the rest of them, Sollux seizing meteors in his psychic grip and hurtling them at the mutated black mass with streaks of screaming fire. The melee fighters leap from lilypad to lilypad and gouge at the creature's flailing limbs; the ones with long range weapons stand somewhere behind him and fire into the fray, and he thinks maybe he's supposed to be in one of these groups but he can never remember which one. And the howling of the King hurts his ears and now they're hot and wet and bleeding.

He covers his ears, closes his eyes, tries to shut it all out because there's no swirling rainbow fog to do it for him anymore, but it pierces him and there aren't any colors and he needs it to stop, he needs to make it stop now oh god make it stop, oh GOD make it stop...

Yes, say his gods. We will.

- - - - - - - - - -

In a panic they retreat to the Veil, and they bicker pointlessly and lay blame and get angry at one another and act out of confusion and fear. He's not sure why, mostly because he's still got that headache, and his body hasn't purged enough poisons yet to really understand the world without them. But it's also because he can't comprehend how anyone could be sad or angry or afraid anymore.

He has seen his mirthful messiahs, felt the wrath of god fill him with holy fire. Heard them speak his name, choose him and him alone to be the vessel of their rage and power. His fingertips have worked miracles.

Terezi makes contact with the aliens while Karkat's asleep, and for a while there's a frenzy to know more about them. He avoids it, for the most part. He's not feeling well and he can't see the colors and he just sort of wants to lie in the horn pile and smile up at the ceiling and think about what it was like to be a vengeful god. He's sure once he gets used to the sharpness and the loudness and the brightness he'll start to think the way everyone else does, and see the way they do, and remember things like how to use an alchemiter.

And then Karkat tells him to troll the humans. He follows orders, because if your friends don't know the right thing to do, who does?

- - - - - - - - - -

He's running blindly through the dark halls of the laboratory, screaming, his own voice hurting his injured ears. His head is pounding and he thinks he's going to throw up and he shoves something aside but it turns out to be a wall and he falls and his head hits the tile. Pain and sparks of starlight bursting in front of his vision, and of course he fell because he can't make sense of anything he sees, it wasn't like this before, it's not supposed to look like this, there are supposed to be colors!!

He rolls over and lies with his aching forehead pressed to the ground, some horrible, roiling emotion churning in his stomach, one he doesn't understand. Anger. He's angry, he hates. Hates those stupid words spoken by some alien boy, hates those two freakish creatures parading around on his computer screen, pretending to be his mirthful messiahs.

He's seen the messiahs, wielded their power. He knows them. He... he thinks he knows them. But his mind is reeling, the sopor is seeping out of him and he's painfully aware that far too much of his life has been a never-ending series of sopor-induced hallucinations. Maybe his gods never chose him, maybe that was a hallucination too. Maybe all his life he'd been praying to a couple of ugly alien fools instead of gods.

He's panicking, he needs to know. Face pressed to the floor he prays, prays desperately. Someone answer me. Tell me I didn't imagine it. Tell me you chose me. Tell me you're there.

And horribly, horribly, there is no more fog and he can see exactly where the words go. They echo on and on inside his head forever, and the only one who can hear them is him.

- - - - - - - - - -

He lies there for what seems like an eternity.

His head is clear now, and the world is bright and sharp and painful, but the hole his memories used to drain out of is gone.

It's better now. Karkat said he'd be fine.

He isn't fine.

Karkat lied to him. Nothing is fine. He's only gotten worse and worse and it hurts and he can't take it anymore and Karkat knew and Karkat didn't care.

But it's better now. The hole is gone.

He touches the back of his head, where he hit it against the floor, and his fingertips come away bloody, bright with streaks of royal indigo.

After a moment, he smears it across the ground, then the walls, his face and his clothes and his hands.

And he watches the colors return.

[Summergale]

Oh hi. It's been a while, hasn't it?

Yeah. Been busy. Don't click the spoiler if you don't like blood, but then again what with recent updates....

Vengeance

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She drinks her fill of royal blood and immediately feels sorrow for it. The Tyrian purple stains her hands, her cheeks, and perhaps most importantly her lips and tongue. The thirst deep within her being is sated by that blood, like some monolithic beast newly tamed. She pushes away from the horn pile amidst a quiet cascade of honks. She shudders at their dreadful tone, once lighthearted but now soured by blood and madness.

(monster freak aberration fiend)

She doesn't understand any more. It tastes good, the best thing in the world, when once it tasted repulsive and bitter. She laps awkwardly at her hands and wrists as if trying to gulp down those last few drops. Memories cloud the back of her mind and tell her of a burning pain in her stomach that may or may not have been, a Knight's fragile tear-stained kiss, and waking into the world with a wet gasp and intense bloodthirst.

("Please, Kanaya!" he sobs, and in some now-stirring part of her she hears.)

Her entire body aches as she searches for Karkat. His wish for her return was so strong it dragged her back from the cold embrace of death, and for that... she can be only thankful. Death terrifies her in all the worst ways. She searches and cannot find him. A shame. Fleetingly she wonders what that candy-red blood would taste like, but she thrusts that errant thought from her mind. He is not to be harmed.

(He brought her back into the world, and she owes him at least that much.)

She drags herself to the transportalizer, and from there to the dim confines of her rooms. Bright fabrics drape every surface, and she would touch them if only her hands were clean. Again she turns to that unsettling routine, licking her own skin as if trying to clean them, like some kind of purrbeast. When there is no more blood, she runs her hands through her clothes and pulls out a set of work clothes. Plain. Simple. More importantly, this set of clothes lacks a gaping, green-stained hole in the stomach of the shirt.


(A sudden searing pain, and her world melts away into darkness and blood.)

Her every sense feels on edge in a way she could never explain. She hears the ticking and gurgling of the lab, the gentle creaking and groaning as it shifts in its own way. She smells the blood still crusted on her clothes, a fragrant bouquet in the otherwise sterile air. The smell makes her realise - she wants revenge. Her race is doomed to a lonely extinction because of the so-called 'Prince of Hope'. She wants nothing more than to tear into Eridan, feel the fabric of his clothes and the flesh beneath tear under her fury; she wants to drink that deep purple blood and feel it run across her chin. The thoughts are unusually morbid, but she doesn't care.

(kill maim slaughter massacre mutilate)

Kanaya Maryam wants vengeance.

Author's Notes

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So yeah, this was fun. The gradient effect was a bitch to do though.