God I can't stay mad at Noir.
He's like when a tiny puppy murders a squirrel and brings the corpse into your house as a present to you and it's wagging its tail and is SO PROUD of itself.
Then it goes into your house, tears your couch apart, and shits on all of your carpets.
THAT IS NOT SPADES
THERE IS NO CONSENT
THAT IS LIKE SPADES RAPE
TROLLS WOULD BE DISGUSTED
Originally Posted by invalidgriffin
Where do you keep the chips, dB. Can you turn up the air conditioner? Man why is your internet so slow, it is taking forever to download all these seasons of Digimon. YES Digimon is important to the lesbians process will you stop nagging.
got that bitch a wweb-cartoonist. bitches lovve wweb-cartoonists.
Thicker Than Blood 01234: It seemed like a pretty straightforward moraillegience. He provided her with food, she protected him from the other rainbow drinkers. Maybe if her old matesprit hadn't gotten involved, it would have stayed that way.
Wizardstuck 12345678910111213141516: The new Hogwarts students just keep getting weirder every year.
Zombiestuck KKEG (1): They thought that the Earth would be empty, ready for them to rebuild and reshape it as they saw fit. They weren't expecting that the meteors wouldn't hit everywhere, or that they might have some nasty side effects. They weren't expecting the Infected.
Don't Press Buttons (1): As usual, John does something stupid. Only this time, the result is that he becomes a troll, and Karkat becomes a human. Shenanigans ensue.
Blood and Noir: I'd fallen for that trap once. I wasn't going to do it again. The Road Ill Traveled: A poem about Karkat and Terezi written in the style of Robert Frost's "The Road Not Traveled". Pixie Trails: Sometimes luck doesn't even factor in. Unovastuck-Karkat vs Throh and Sawk: Apparently, a Sawk is faster than a Throh. Faster than a Braviary too. Karkat finds out the hard way. Kore Wa Troll Desu Ka?: Includes crossdressing and magical girl transformations. Karkat was not pleased. The Lawyer and the Goddess: Vriska and Terezi are having a very important chat when they get interrupted by a certain juggalo. Prompt Dunp: A group of several short fics I wrote based on prompts, including Tavros and Bro sharing tea, Slick talking with Jade about (briefly) hobbits, and Dave finding a birthday gift for Rose. Tears: Getting stabbed in the chest once sucks. Getting stabbed in the chest twice really sucks. Prey: Nepeta is a clever kitty. Yes: In a moment of weakness, Rose consults her magical cue ball. My Little Sis: An alt!kids fic about Bro raising blue!Jade. Based off of MSB's AU roleplay. Funhouse: John really, REALLY doesn't like clowns. Or music by Pink. Ice Cubes: Bro talks to Nanna before his fated battle with Jack. INDIGO and CaNdY rEd: An altblood pesterlog, featuring mutant Gamzee and indigo Karkat. Kantostuck: John wants to be the very best. Like no one ever was. Disease Called Friendship: Karkat has had a bad time with friends. The Demon: Death sometimes comes in the form you'd least expect. Hope: Even the Prince of Hope doesn't understand it. Hoststuck: Yeah, I don't really know either. Coulrophobia: HONK HONK MOTHERFUCKER Do: Killer: He stalks in the darkness, waiting. Waiting. Awaken: It's hard, being a rainbowdrinker. It's hard and no one understands. Kitten: Hearts Boxcars adopts an adorable kitten. Misery Loves Company: Terezi gives the bad news, and finds out some bad news of her own. Tend the Living: Gogdammit Hussie I hate you. Doll: It's actually a very good thing that Vriska allowed Bec to be prototyped. Don't Die On Me: Terezi discovers a new reason to hate Vriska. BL1ND Buddiie2: Sollux consults Terezi on the best method of seeing without sight. Cold: Dave decides to take a little time out to go see Jade.
God I can't stay mad at Noir.
He's like when a tiny puppy murders a squirrel and brings the corpse into your house as a present to you and it's wagging its tail and is SO PROUD of itself.
Then it goes into your house, tears your couch apart, and shits on all of your carpets.
Re: MSPA Fanfiction V: We're Going to Need More Wands
Originally Posted by PingZing
Candlelight and Clockwork: Epilogue
Rose is sitting on the edge of the mattress rubbing sleep from her eyes when Dave walks in, radiating smugness. He takes his customary position leaning against the doorframe, one leg crossed in front of the other, arms folded, and a smirk on his face.
“And what, may I ask,” Rose says, yawning, “Is the cause of your latest sense of insufferably over-inflated self-satisfaction?”
Dave raises an eyebrow. “Shit Lalonde, you get even more verbose when you’re half-asleep. No, for your information, I just got done schooling some past fool in the ways of advanced alchemization. Here’s your fact for the day: shaving cream is really fucking flammable. Combine that shit with a clock in an alchemiter, and you’ve got yourself one hell of an unstable time bomb. The more you know.”
Rose simply stares sleepily at Dave and doesn’t say anything. She rubs her eyes again in lieu of a response and stands up, stretching. She arches her back with a resounding series of cracks and one huge pop! from her spine.
“Ahh…much better.” She pauses for a moment to roll her neck before continuing, “Dave, I cannot help but wonder if your abuse of your past self should be classified as mere teenaged mischief, or a deeper sense of self-loathing.”
Dave holds up his hands. “Whoa, don’t you start with that psychobabble bullshit at me. I only do this shit ironically. That and I’ve been chronologically strong-armed into it. ‘sides, Future Me did it to me, I figure it’s only fair I get a chance to do it back to Past Me.”
Rose squeezes her eyes shut and pinches the bridge of her nose. “I’ll navigate the psychological consequences of time-travel related self-abuse another time, perhaps when I’m less lethargic. And perhaps when the threat of imminent doom no longer hangs above us like our personal sword of Damocles. That does rather put a damper on psychochronological musings.”
Dave scoffs, “There’s not a single doubt in my mind that you could write a full dissertation on it complete with convoluted and unnecessary footnotes and citations sprouting out of every page. But we’ve got more important things to worry about. We’re near the end of this iteration, so wake Narcolepto over there up.”
Rose looks over at John and Dave follows her gaze. Silence weighs heavily on the two of them, both unwilling to break the tranquility of the scene.
Eventually, Rose heaves a sigh. “It’s such a shame, you know. There’s simply not enough time.”
“The hell are you talking about? We’ve got more time than an antique clock shop up in here.”
Rose shakes her head. “No, we have no more than an hour. Yes, we have the option of repeating that same hour endlessly, but it isn’t the same. In this one hour, what changes? Everything is already predestined in this hour. The existence of fate is not something I find myself very comfortable with.”
“See, there’s your problem. I keep saying you can’t overthink this time travel shit. Just gives you a headache.”
“Not all of us can be as blissfully apathetic about our situation, Dave. I have to admit some envy toward your indifference.”
Dave finally turns away from John to look at Rose. “You’re just grumpy because you can’t get a decent nap.”
Rose snorts a laugh before she can catch herself, and refuses to make eye contact with Dave. “Yes, the source of my frustration is sleeplessness, not existential conundrums,” she says, and moves toward John.
She shakes him awake and presses his glasses into his groping hand. He gives her a mumbled “Thnks” and sits up, blinking blearily.
“Rise and shine Egbert, we’re gonna go wreck causality’s shit some more,” says Dave.
“…huh?” John replies eloquently.
“What Dave means to say is it’s again time to reverse by an hour. You’ve got to get up,” Rose adds.
John blinks owlishly at the two of them for a moment before yawning. “But I just fell asleep!” He says. “And I had some really good dreams too…I think you were in them, Rose!”
“Really? Perhaps you can tell me about them after we reverse again. It really is imperative that we get moving,” Rose says.
“In fact,” John says, ignoring her, “I’m pretty sure the reason it was a good dream was because you were there.”
Dave’s waggles his eyebrows suggestively at John. “Really now. Just what were you dreaming of, Egbert?”
John looks blankly up at Dave. “What?”
Dave says nothing, waiting.
John’s eyes widen. “Oh! Oh, no! Nothing like…that. Oh geez, no way Dave,” John says, blushing furiously.
Rose pokes her head out of the doorway for a moment before drawing back. “If you’re done antagonizing John, Dave, I believe our past-selves have just departed. We can leave at any time.”
John stands up, legs shaking slightly. “Wait a minute. I want to make something before we go. Where’s your alchemiter, Rose?”
Rose frowns. “Downstairs and on a platform outside. Why do you need it?”
John gets up and wobbles his way to the doorway. He pokes his head into the hall and looks both ways. After confirming that the past-selves are nowhere to be seen he slips into the room next door. Rose and Dave exchange a glance and follow.
When they peer inside, they find John tiptoeing across to the end table with the sleeping Past Dave’s shades on them. John reaches out to the shades and is just about to captchalogue them when Past Dave grunts and rolls over. John freezes, arm outstretched and stares at him, every muscle tensed. Finally, Past Dave’s breath resumes the even rhythm of the sleeping and John relaxes. He captchalogues the shades without incident and returns to the doorway.
“The hell are you doing with my shades man?” Dave whispers. “Don’t tell me you think you’re nearly cool enough to wear those. It’s a miracle I don’t freeze mine they’re so chilled by my presence.”
John rolls his eyes. “Which way did you say the alchemiter was, Rose?” He whispers, ignoring Dave.
“This way,” Rose whispers back, taking the lead. “Though I too am curious as to your actions at the moment. What exactly are you trying to accomplish?” She asks, turning to John.
John walks beside Rose, staring straight ahead. “Don’t worry, you’ll see. I have a plan!”
The trio makes its way out to the alchemiter platform, Rose and John squinting at the sudden brightness. One of the many golden clouds is currently hovering over the platform, and slowly dampening the group. John waves one of his hands up at the clouds, and a sudden gust of wind blows them away, clearing the air directly above them. Dave raises his eyebrows in mute appreciation and Rose nods, impressed.
John makes his way over to the upgraded alchemiter and slots a blank card into the Designix portion of the alchemiter. He enters the code for Dave’s sunglasses and punches the card.
“Hey Rose,” John asks, turning to her, “What’s the captcha code for your scarf?”
“My scarf?” Rose asks, confused.
“Yep!” John says, “That should do the trick here!”
Rose shrugs, and unties the scarf and captchalogues it. She hands the card to John, who flips it over and enters the code into the Designix and punches the blank card again. John thanks Rose, and hands her back the scarf’s captcha card.
“Do you have any intention of revealing your plan, John? All this mystery is, appropriately, baffling,” Rose says, retying the scarf around her waist.
John removes the captcha card from the Designix and slots it into the totem pedestal. “Just a sec! You’ll see real soon, I promise!” He says.
The alchemiter projects a hologram of the card’s associated totem. John activates the alchemiter and it scans the totem-hologram. With a flash of light, the item is produced and appears in the center of the alchemiter’s platform.
John walks over, picks up the newly-created item and hands it to Rose. She takes it, and turns it over in her hands for a moment, examining it. It is a pair of slender glasses with angular silver frames and dark purple lenses. Rose looks up at John, her expression blank.
“Did you make me rose-tinted glasses?”
“Yep! I heard you and Dave talking about how his shades kept him safe from the horrorterrors when time traveling or whatever, and thought maybe if you had a pair…” He trails off, uncertain.
Rose eyes John critically. Any other day, Rose would’ve considered John’s actions to be the ultimate in passive-aggression condescension. A pun on her name, no less! She had barely been able to take his birthday gift and its associated note at face value. But…that had been nothing but handwriting and text. With the boy standing in front of her, with his earnest smile and hopeful expression, it is difficult to interpret his actions as anything but honest concern for a friend.
Rose puts on the glasses. “Thank you John. They’re perfect.”
John’s smile redoubles its efforts to take up the entirety of his face. “You’re welcome Rose! I hope they work!”
“Ya’ll done being sappier than an entire grove of maple trees so we can finally make this happen?” Dave says, his Timetables at the ready.
“Just a second! I have to go put your shades back!” John says, running into the house before either Rose or Dave has a chance to protest.
The two of them are left standing outside with the only sound being the distant and omnipresent drumming of the rain. Without John’s intervention, the clouds slowly begin to drift back over the alchemiter’s platform and both Rose and Dave are soon being rained on once more. They stand side by side in silence for a time.
“I’m surprised you’ve refrained from comment thus far, Dave,” Rose says.
“This may come as a shock to you Rose, but sometimes I just got nothin’ to say. You’ll just have to deal without my sick burns for once,” he returns.
“Would it be fair to say that a damper has been put upon the aforementioned burns for now?” Rose asks with a significant look up at the rain clouds above them.
Dave stifles a groan with a hand over his face. “Oh gog, he’s affecting your sense of humor now. I don’t know if I can handle that many puns in a day.”
“At least he isn’t affecting my speech patterns like a particular troll I could name,” Rose says smugly.
“…touché Lalonde, touché.”
John bursts back out of the house and stops, out of breath and panting. He leans forward and rests his hands on his knees for a moment before straightening.
“Okay! Ready whenever, you guys!” he says.
Rose turns so she’s facing Dave, checks to ensure her new glasses are still present and places her hand on Dave’s shoulder. John does the same with Dave’s other shoulder. Dave spins up the Timetables, and just as they’re about to depart, Rose slides her hand into John’s and holds on tight. If he’d been inclined to look at Rose at the moment, John would’ve noticed that she was clenching her jaw a little more tightly than was maybe necessary—that the lines of her face were a little tighter, her breathing a little more ragged.
Even though John didn’t see any of that, he still understood what the gesture meant. He gives Rose’s hand a reassuring squeeze in response. He says everything he needs to without a single word.
Everything is going to be okay.
The three disappear again in a flash of light.
They will arrive an hour in the past again. John will inquire about Rose’s glasses, and she will inform him that they worked just fine, and thank him again. If asked, Dave will pretend he didn’t see Rose take John by the hand. There are just some things you do for you best bro, or even your paradox-sister. If that involves willful denial and temporary blindness, then so be it. You know they’d do the same for you, even if you’d never say it out loud.
The next eight iterations of the same hour will pass relatively uneventfully. There are perhaps one or two snapshots that bear examination.
Rose stops in her tracks, momentarily bewildered. “John? What are you doing in my kitchen?”
John turns his head toward her, smiling sheepishly. “I got tired of just sitting around in bed, and I’m feeling a lot better anyway. I thought I’d do something useful!”
Rose narrows her eyes. “That’s…fine, John. But the source of my confusion is the fact that not two minutes ago, you were asleep on the bed upstairs.”
John’s face brightens in understanding. “Oh! Right! Time travel, Rose, duh! I forgot, you’re from the first iteration still, huh?” John turns back to stove, and begins fiddling with one of the dials. “Do you have any matches around here?”
Rose blinks for a moment, perturbed by the apparent non-sequitur before opening one of the drawers under the kitchen counters and pulling out a box of matches. “What is it exactly that you’re doing down here?” She asks, handing the box to John.
“Well,” John begins, leaning down to look at the stove’s burners, “I thought I’d make us some food, because I’m feeling sorta hungry. I mentioned it to you, and you told me to go check out the kitchen. You said you’d come help me in a bit, but I didn’t think you meant past-you! Where are your pots?”
Rose points out a cabinet to John’s right and he clanks around inside for a moment before drawing a suitably large pot out and placing it on the stove.
“John,” Rose says, furrowing her brow, “You do realize that the house’s power is out, right?”
“Yeah, I thought that was gonna be a problem at first, but nope! Turns out you’ve got a gas stove!”
“I suppose I’m not as well-versed as you are with cooking appliances, but I fail to understand how that makes a difference.”
“Well,” John says, turning one of the knobs on the stove, “With a gas stove, only the ignitey part actually needs electricity. If you turn on the gas, all you need to light it is…” John strikes the match and carefully brings the flame near the stove’s burner. With a whoosh, the gas catches fire and settles into a steady blue burn. “…a flame!” John waves the match out and sets it aside.
John grabs a large can of chicken noodle soup from the counter next to him—Was that in the pantry? Rose wonders—and carefully pours it into the pot.
Rose watches over John’s shoulder as he adjusts the burners and stirs the soup slowly, methodically. John is uncharacteristically silent and Rose is almost tempted to hold her breath, lest she otherwise break the tranquility. As she listens to the silence, Rose hears the things that make it incomplete; the quiet hissing of the burners, the clink of the wooden spoon on the edges of the pot, the quiet humming of…what is that?
As Rose narrows her eyes and listens more closely, she realizes that the humming is coming from John. He’s humming a slow, almost mournful tune under his breath and swaying subtly in time with it. Rose realizes that while she’s seen still pictures of John before the game, and live video of him afterward, it’s not the same as meeting him in person. As he stands there stirring far too much soup for a single person, humming happily to himself, utterly focused, Rose thinks that she prefers it this way.
It would not occur to her until much later that John’s good mood was the result of another’s presence, rather than the simple act of cooking.
Approximately one hour after a harried-looking Dave and a determined Rose haul in an unconscious John into Rose’s home, ten separate versions of the trio exit again. Twenty-seven warp an hour into the past, and three watch the flashes of light fire off one by one.
Rose turns to Dave. “Any other loops to fulfill?”
Dave looks at the house and shrugs. “Don’t think so. I’ll need to be back eight hours from now to wake my lazyass past self up, but I can worry about that later.”
Rose nods and turns to John. “Think you’re sufficiently recovered from your mysterious illness?”
“Yeah, I feel fine now. Dunno what was up earlier, but I’m good to go!”
“I suppose it’s time, then. Follow me, it’s a short flight to my Land’s second gate.” Rose brandishes her Thorns and is borne aloft by their power.
Dave removes Unreal Air from his sylladex and quickly hops on it before it can float away without him. John lifts himself into the air with his newfound control over the wind, barely ruffling the sand around him. The three fly in silence toward a single white dot in the distance, a tiny island of sand in the middle of the ocean. They land beneath the swirling spirograph symbol, and wait for the noise of their passage to die down.
“Everyone remember the plan?” John asks once everyone can hear again.
“Oh dear, I seem to have forgotten already,” says Rose.
“Geez Rose! Really? You and Dave go to Lohac and do whatever it is you said you had to do, then I—”
“—go to the battlefield and retrieve the Tumor. I know John, I was being sarcastic.”
“…oh. Well.” John coughs.
Dave rolls his eyes and allows Unreal Air to float a few feet off the ground. “Okay, I’m out. You two are gonna take longer than an old lady paying at a grocery store on senior discount day. I’ll be on the other side doing important shit while you old biddies hunt down every coupon in your purses.” Dave adjusts his weight on the board and goes shooting up through the gate.
Rose and John turn back to face each other, and their eyes meet. Quick as a flash, Rose leans forward and kisses John on the cheek. “Stay safe,” she whispers, and maintains eye contact for an instant longer before flying up through the gate.
John stares at nothing for a moment before he brings his hand to his face. His smile outshines the Land around him.
Elsewhere, a silly girl claps her hands together and attempts to lean closer to a par of complicated-looking glasses perched on her face, and only succeeds in leaning forward.
“Eeeeee!” she squeals happily, “They are so cute together!”
Oh man! Best end. All of this was really cute and thank you so much for sharing it. :3
Originally Posted by Author
The One True Meta
I looked around the thread. It was really annoying when everyone slacked off. I mean, fuck, we'd just gotten a bunch of crazy new updates. Where the hell are all the fics?
"I bet Rule 34 already has their porn up..."
Skaian and Graven glanced over from their "Last Few Page Poker Table". Bastards never let me join. Skaian asked, kind of awkwardly, "What... What was that Author?"
"Nothing that concerns you." Lousy prick. Never did read that Indystuck thing. Didn't play enough of the games in it. I looked around the thread again, hoping some new shit might have popped up. Nope. Path and Jim were busy debating who was more hard-boiled- Path!Slick or Jim!Slick. Neither was really winning. Cerulean was muttering to herself in the corner, cackling, as she always did on the last few pages of a thread, and Karne?
We don't talk about Karne during the last few pages of the thread. He's just creepy during that time. Like this fucking prompt. I mean, shit, even if I do write stupid crap every now and then, what's the point of writing the Metafic? It seems fucking redundant. I looked at the other regulars of the room, and pinched the bridge of my nose when I saw what Doodled, Lucid, Anonymous, and Lant were up to. Somehow, they'd gotten into the booze.
I swear to god I locked that in the cupboard after Domoz got into it the last time and shared it with me. I spun my chair over to them, kind of giggling at the spinning. I stopped the instant I got near, and heard their conversation. Lant began.
"I tell ya guys, I don' unnerstan wha' this whole thingamagummy abou' th' prom' genera'er is about. It's rel... rill... cool!"
Doodled slurred out a reply. "I agree Lan', I jus'... I jus' wan'ned ta say tha' I love ya all. Y'all are great."
And the four attempted a four way bro hug. I quickly spun away. Didn't want to get involved in that horseshit. I heard a knock and the door, and arched an eyebrow in surprise. We rarely had new arrivals this late. I glanced around, and sighed, realizing that I was the only one sober enough to open the damn door. I did so. Fiery, a new arrival, arrived in much the same manner Kass had. With a doomed timeline. I shrugged, it wasn't that bad. But then Draconic had to go and remind everyone about the fucking main point of this thread.
"You guys! Author's actually writing something! That's what this thread's all about!"
I sighed in reply. "Damn it Drake, shut up. Just... go start up another crossover spree. I need a new chapter of Gurrenstuck, and I'm out of ideas."
Draconic nodded. "Good idea Author! Draconic, Awaaaaaay!!!"
I went back to my computer, and thought a bit. I guess we're all pretty weird. Hell, we all write fanfiction for a bizarre webcomic. But it's all cool. Because we're like family. No matter what happens, we'll always be there for each other, write for each other. 'Cause when nobody's around to keep you standing, it's best to write sitting down.
Re: MSPA Fanfiction V: We're Going to Need More Wands
The recent update made me think of this, and that one thing where the Black Queen/Snowman could be said to be Doc Scratch's mother catalyzed it.
Also: MSPA Fanfiction Six: The Number is Actually in French
Master of Ceremonies
Don't turn your back on the body.
The message sent, Doc Scratch began the trip back to Alternia. While he could cross massive gulfs of time and space with but a thought, that was only in a single universe. Even for a First Guardian, the distances between different realities had to be respected. Traversing them quickly was certainly a possibility, but doing so instantaneously was not.
In any case, Scratch enjoyed the chance to "stretch his legs", so to speak. For a being with nothing to do and everything to do it with, the alleviation of boredom became the paramount concern, and travel could always prove a diverting pastime. The duties of First Guardianship always called him back to Alternia, but it was still, to put it simply, fun.
Something, however, was different this time. A strange sensation, a tug not unlike the bonds of Guard duty, but in an obviously different direction. It was made all the stranger because he did not immediately know what was causing it. Curiosity, that rarest and most treasured sensations for the nigh-omniscient, made itself known.
With a shrug, the Doc indulged it. The unknown was as enticing as it could potentially be dangerous. A gap in his knowledge could mean something capable of, laughable though it may seem, challenging Lord English or his ascendance. Alternately, it could be capable of killing him, and what a treat that would be.
Scratch's hopes of encountering something lethal began to fade as he realized he was moving towards that region of space-time that was sculpted into a flawless, gigantic lotus blossom. Death's Domain. The Afterlife. The Blossom of Fond Regard. The place had many names among those who knew of it, and Doc Scratch was obviously among them. Indeed, he had come here in the past in the hopes that positioning himself in the postmortem would, by default, make him dead. But, as Death himself had explained to him, things simply did not work that way.
Once he passed the dimensional threshold of the Blossom, existence curved into the semblance of a lotus gave way to infinite actual lotuses, fractally extending as far as the eye or omniscient, featureless cue ball head could see, tended by bees wise in the ways of infinite recursion, ensuring that the Afterlife did not reach infinite mass. Though not even he had the details, Scratch knew that that had once happened. It had taken the attention of whatever guiding intelligence lay beyond all of existence to repair Death's Domain afterwards.
Doc Scratch briefly toyed with the idea of triggering such a mass cascade, but the idea of that entity noticing him inspired another novel emotion: Fear. That being was as beyond him as he was beyond a human or troll. To draw its notice would be suicidal, but in a way not even he found himself comfortable with. And, in any case, there was still the question of the tug, which had grown all the stronger once he was in the same universe as it. Furthermore, now that he was, the Alternian Guardian could send himself to the source of that tug in an instant. So he did.
Death looked up from the game with his new visitor to see a familiar absence-of-face. He smiled, but then, he had little choice in the matter. AH. HELLO, MR. SCRATCH. TO WHAT DO I OWE THE PLEASURE?
The other player glanced up. He and Scratch took each other's measure. He was a human male, Caucasian, blonde hair, late twenties at the oldest. Black fingerless gloves, skewed baseball cap, sunglasses in tribute to an anime series that, while in Scratch's vast corpus of knowledge, had not in fact been considered by him until that moment.
Doc Scratch had never before felt what he was now. It took a moment of self-analysis before he realized that he was experiencing déjà vu. This man, this inhabitant of an entirely different universe than that in which Scratch's planetary ward resided, was the most hauntingly familiar figure the Guardian had ever met. Finally, Scratch performed what was an incredibly rare event for him: He asked a question without knowing the answer. "Who are you?"
The figure spoke not a word, only raising an eyebrow.
Death coughed into his skeletal fist, feeling dreadfully awkward. THIS IS AMBROSE STRIDER, FORMERLY OF EARTH. HE WAS THE GUARDIAN AND, TECHNICALLY, FATHER OF THE KNIGHT OF TIME.
"'Sup?" The expression on the elder Strider's face was a small, private smirk. His gaze was firmly locked on the game board. He was clearly enjoying some private joke, even now. "Call me Bro."
Doc Scratch considered this man. There was absolutely no reason this man should be exerting any kind of sensible attraction, and yet he was. Why? Scratch didn't know. What didn't he know? By plotting the borders of those voids in his omniscience, he could at least guess at their contents. Given all he could observe, there was only one realistic possibility.
He decided to test the theory. "Would you be familiar with a marionette, essentially a sock puppet with a nutcracker's head, a golden tooth therein?"
This was enough to draw the man's attention. "Baseball cap flipped turnways?"
"Beady blue eyes designed for that optimum balance of irony, memorability, and nightmare fuel?"
Doc Scratch considered this. "The eyes were indisputably blue and beady. The rest is more subjective than I'd care to say, one way or the other."
The man, this... Bro, bore a small frown as he considered this. "What, exactly, do you have to do with Lil' Cal?"
Lil' Cal. Two syllables, bordering on the totally meaningless. Why did they inspire such nostalgia, such... such fondness? "I take it that that is the name of the puppet in question?"
"Fuck yeah, it is."
"Lil' Cal was instrumental in my synthesis. He provided my morphology, attire, and..." The Guardian laughed in spite of himself. "my sense of humor."
Bro's expression was one of true shock. His pointy eyewear had slid to the point where Scratch could see the red eyes and idly note them a most unusual mutation in humans, especially with no other indications of albinism. "No fuckin' way."
"I assure you, improbable as it may seem—"
"Naw, man, I believe you. Soon as you laughed, I fuckin' believed you. That's Cal's laugh." Finally noticing the state of his shades, he hastily adjusted them, but not before the Doc could see the beginnings of tears. "That puppet'd been with me for as long as I can remember. Lil' guy was even with me in my dreams, and there, he was always laughin'. At first, shit was creepy as fuck. Then I understood: Cal wasn't laughin' at me. He was laughin' at everything else. The irony of existence itself.
"Dedicated my life to irony after that. The study, the cultivation, the exploration. It made the world make sense. It made a fuckin' meteor shower outta nowhere make sense." He shrugged. "OK, gettin' killed when some crazy-ass ninja pirate zombie robot turns out to also be a werewolf? Didn't see it comin', still workin' it out, but hey, give it time, right? Got nothin' but."
"I... see" And Scratch thought he did. He realized he was going to need a bit more time before death to fully digest this revelation, much as Bro would after it. "I am sorry for interrupting your game, gentlemen. Death, as always, it has been a pleasure."
The psychopomp, who had feeling insufficiently circumstantial through much of the conversation, gave a nod. A MUTUAL ONE, AS ALWAYS, MR. SCRATCH."
"Dude. Bro. 'Sides, you're, like, Supercal or some shit, right?"
"In a sense."
"Then ain't no way in Hell I'm lettin' you go without a fist bunp."
"I..." At first, he was going to reject it out of hand, but that same force that brought him here made that simple act impossible. That, and for all the talk of irony the man had given, it was clear that Bro was being more sincere at this moment than perhaps any other during or after his life. Doc Scratch gave a brief, amused chuckle at himself, at the perversely amusing nature of paradox space, and at this man for whom he felt both the pride of a father and the esteem of a son. "Very well."
Two fists met at the knuckles. The billiard ball-headed man vanished in a flash of green. The mere mortal, made of flesh and blood, or at least memories of them, sat back down.
Death smiled, and one could tell it was intentional. WELL. THAT WAS NICE.
"No doubt. Know if Dave'll be passin' by on weird time shit errands?" THOSE ENMESHED IN THE WEB OF SBURB'S FLEXIMYTHOS HAVE A RATHER UNIQUE SET OF ARRANGEMENTS FOR THEIR AFTERLIFE. I AM NOT A PART OF THEM.
"Huh. Well, knowin' him, he'll probably undo my death once he figures out the most ironic way to do so. That, or do the 'My Bro is dead' speech. Or both. Like to think I taught him well." Bro paused. "Whose turn was it, anyway?" I HAD JUST FINISHED MY TURN.
"Right, right. So, we's up to the nude plastic statue. Le's see if we can trap those mice as ironically as possible."
Last edited by A Fan; 03-03-2011 at 10:26 PM.
Do you like Magic: the Gathering? Got ideas for MSPA-inspired cards? Post them here!
Sigspoiler of spoilsigging:
Fervent believer in preserving Internet anonymity.
Perhaps the last person on Earth without a Facebook.
Most easily satisfied audience in paradox space.
I am A Fan. And I am silly.
Generic chummeme: Your chumhandle is maverickLinguist, for your typing style is notable only for its absence of notable quirks. You let the assortment of personalities both naturally occuring and artificially manufactured in your own mind supply the requisite air of the bizarre. Your title is Muse of Thought. Your land is that of Dreams and Thunder.
And Tompkins sigquotes:
Originally Posted by Decker
I love the "whoops." It makes me think it happened by accident.
"Okay. My still life bowl of fruit is com-WHERE DID THESE LESBIANS COME FROM?!"
Originally Posted by LegoTechnic
Also keep in mind that the universe is a frog. It's a good thing to remember any time you start to feel you have a grasp on the celestial logic of the universe, be it the size of suns or the location of the furthest ring, because it reiterates that things can still be inexplicably weird.