Is it tacky to reply to the last thread? Because I did not get in there when I got Ficstuck.
Originally Posted by Author
The One True Meta
Path and Jim were busy debating who was more hard-boiled- Path!Slick or Jim!Slick. Neither was really winning.
Originally Posted by Author
Those That Fuck Around
I glared at Path. "Look Path, all I'm saying is that I don't care which of your Problem Sleuth's is more hardboiled. I read both your fics, and I like them. Isn't that a-fucking-nough?" Path nodded. I grinned, and turned to walk away. But before I could, of course, Path decided to say something.
"But wait! Author!" I cursed under my breath. God dammit. Why is it that everyone redirects their problems to me?
"If you had to pick whose is more hardboiled... It'd be mine, right?" I kept walking. "...RIGHT?"
There is really no doubt. Jim's Sleuth is the most hard-boiled character ever made.
(It's why I so rarely put him in stuff now. I just like reading Jim's more.)
The party was still going, the vast majority of authors were getting massively hammered, and in the corner stood two of the more austere among the group.
And then Graven showed up.
He started the conversation right off, brushing some speck of dust or other off his shoulder.
"You know, I got my ACTs recently."
"Please, Graven, nobody wants to hear about your testing thing."
"No, I'm serious! I'm in the top percentile in English."
"Pfft."
"Lantadyme, you know it's awesome. I thought I was a good writer, but now I have precedent."
"Graven, there's being a good writer, and there's being a hole. You're being a hole about this right now."
"Oh, right. You would know about that, Skaian? You put out, what two chapters in as many weeks?"
Skaian took a long drag on his Gray Club cigar before answering.
"More'n you did."
Graven had no answer for that.
"So, Lantadyme, I saw that Dave and Terezi thing."
Yes, new thread! /busts out a drabble to commemorate
Terezi/Dave
He kind of expects her to try to lick him the first time they meet. It's why he wears the green suit when he shows up, not a stitch of red on his person besides his eyes and those are locked behind his shades for no one to see. He recognizes her from the crazy quirk of her grin, all teeth like a tiny bloodthirsty Cheshire shark. He nods and she nods, still grinning, and maybe he hadn't been giving her enough credit because all she does is hold out a fist for him to bump.
He does. He's a proper fucking gentleman and all. Her skin is hotter than he'd expected and she's got more curves than any girl he's ever known before, shapely legs and hips and—other things. Yeah.
"Damn, T-Z, you didn't tell me you were so smokin' hot," he says, the words tumbling out before he realizes that for once he actually means it and he's not just flirting for the laughs.
She giggles and steps into his personal space, the heat rolling off her, and for some reason Dave doesn't flinch away. "I could say the same thing to you mister coolkid extraordinaire."
Meta!Compy-plosion
"Hey-a, lantadyme... Whatcha typin'?"
I looked over lanta's shoulder, feeling the subtle light from the computer screen on my face.
"Nothing much, Doodled. Just some drabble on Dave and Terezi to commemorate the new thread..."
"I see..."
I scanned the first couple sentences.
It drew me in enough. I decided to keep reading it...
"Whoa..."
"You like it?"
"Yeah, but it kind of stops abruptly..."
"Oh, I'm not done..."
Lanta typed out the next paragraph with blazing quickness. I barely kept up with him, my eyes widening and widening with every sentence.
He typed the last quotation mark with a flourish.
"You think this'll do?"
I was busy focusing on something else...
"Why's it so warm in here all of a sudd-..."
His computer exploded.
@aC: Tanks!
@Wigmund: Oh yes. Hell yes.
OH SHIT TANKS!
*dives for cover*
apocalypticCritic's computer has exploded.
Quotes
"It is the soldier, not the reporter, who has given us freedom of the press. It is the soldier, not the poet, who has given us freedom of speech. It is the soldier, not the campus organizer, who has given us freedom to demonstrate. It is the soldier, who salutes the flag, who serves beneath the flag, and whose coffin is draped by the flag, who allows the protester to burn the flag."
-Father Dennis Edward O'Brien/USMC
Courage is endurance for one moment more....
-Unknown Marine Second Lieutenant in Vietnam
The party was still going, the vast majority of authors were getting massively hammered, and in the corner stood two of the more austere among the group.
And then Graven showed up.
He started the conversation right off, brushing some speck of dust or other off his shoulder.
"You know, I got my ACTs recently."
"Please, Graven, nobody wants to hear about your testing thing."
"No, I'm serious! I'm in the top percentile in English."
"Pfft."
"Lantadyme, you know it's awesome. I thought I was a good writer, but now I have precedent."
"Graven, there's being a good writer, and there's being a hole. You're being a hole about this right now."
"Oh, right. You would know about that, Skaian? You put out, what two chapters in as many weeks?"
Skaian took a long drag on his Gray Club cigar before answering.
"More'n you did."
Graven had no answer for that.
"So, Lantadyme, I saw that Dave and Terezi thing."
"Yeah? You like it?"
"Well, it was a liiiittle short..."
"Shut up."
Oh come ON Graven, if anyone in this thread gets to brag about credentials, it's the guy who's getting a master's degree in writing.
Ie me.
dammit someone write fic of me being really drunk and babbling about MASTERS degree in WRITING before descending into horrifying sobs about how I'll never amount to anything and am broke
I'm too tired to do it myself also it's my life :|
"It is the soldier, not the reporter, who has given us freedom of the press. It is the soldier, not the poet, who has given us freedom of speech. It is the soldier, not the campus organizer, who has given us freedom to demonstrate. It is the soldier, who salutes the flag, who serves beneath the flag, and whose coffin is draped by the flag, who allows the protester to burn the flag."
-Father Dennis Edward O'Brien/USMC
Courage is endurance for one moment more....
-Unknown Marine Second Lieutenant in Vietnam
Also you totally don't characterize me right. I am refined. And proper. And OOOH SOMETHING SHINY!
*hehem*
But other than that.... SQUEE I HAD A META!FIC WROTE ABOUT ME! SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE~
Quotes
"It is the soldier, not the reporter, who has given us freedom of the press. It is the soldier, not the poet, who has given us freedom of speech. It is the soldier, not the campus organizer, who has given us freedom to demonstrate. It is the soldier, who salutes the flag, who serves beneath the flag, and whose coffin is draped by the flag, who allows the protester to burn the flag."
-Father Dennis Edward O'Brien/USMC
Courage is endurance for one moment more....
-Unknown Marine Second Lieutenant in Vietnam
Infinite keyboards typing infinite fics torn to infinite pieces as the landscape was rent asunder and then up, up into the storm-wrought sky to leave only lasting things behind in their wake. Dust clouds a thousand miles high as the debris mounts. The weight of the five hundredth page bears down upon its abstracted reality, and yet they type on. Incessant, typing into infinity as infinity could never be diminished by naught but the end of their existence in this, the fifth of existences and planes. They type on.
At one keyboard, she types on, atop a great plinth worthy of the magnitude of experiences created by her and her alone, she does not bask, but works onward. She is a beacon to the others, a glowing light from above that casts their own workspaces into usable light and seeds their minds with viable plots and pairings. She shall be rent from this existence to the next last of all, as would only be suitable. She is not alone.
"Nepeta… go to bed."
"noooooooo!!! i'm not done yet!"
He does not dare approach her computer station, lest he be exposed to the majesty of her works. "This dream you've conjured is outright crumbling about you. Against gravity. It is clear that you require rest in spite o—"
"it's a fanfic thread"
"Pardon?"
"it's the fanfic thread! it's almost one hundred so it's being packed away so the next one can come out!"
"This wasteland… is a manifestation of an internet communications collection?"
"yes"
He only briefly looks back out into the infinity around him before reminding himself that it is incomprehensible. The Void would look back at him, he knows, and it would have two mouths and touchably soft white fur.
"Nepeta, go to bed."
"nooooo! i have to finish this hd/nb fic so that i can be the furst to post in the new thread! its impurrrrrtant!! efurryone else is getting ready!"
"Nepeta…"
She turns on him with her eyes wide and her hands raised in the tiniest of begging poses, but his only response is to indignantly press on.
"Your cute face does not work now that you lack pupils." On the other hand, her pouty face worked just fine. He sighed, stepped forward and kissed her on the head. "Goodnight, Nepeta."
He was already descending the infinite plinth, one foothold at a time. "I will not read your ridiculous fanning fiction."
She gasped. "but there's a new indystuck! and a candles and clockwork! equius!!! new rose/john, equius! they're the second best human couple. "
"So you have repeated to my continuing dismay."
"they're practically canon, you know."
"Nepeta," he said, pausing for breath. "We are not having this debate again, about you applying canonicity to real life situations."
"pshawwh!" Beat. "equius?"
He sighed, stopping his attempt to find his next grip. "Yes, Nepeta?"
"pshaw!!!" And then she laughed. Shaking his head, he began to descend at a more rapid pace, only the sound of constant giggling and typing following him down, typing interspereced with commanding shouts of "you kiss that girl! you kiss that girl this instant!!!!!!!!!"
Suddenly, she appeared at the edge of the plinth, her tail flicking with real muscle movement behind her peering face. "equius?"
"Yes, Nepeta?"
"…she did!" And only then did she flash a toothy smile and scatter away, back to her appointed place.
Equius let go of the plinth, deciding to, for lack of a better term, let immortality catch him. Sometimes, days like this with his moirail made forever seemed so terribly, wonderfully long.
Skaian, you are now my favorite person. Forever.
Anywayyyy...Reposting Candlelight and Clockwork's epilogue, it got kinda buried in the end of the previous thread.
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.
“John.”
“Yeah?”
“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.
**
“Hi Rose!”
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!”
fin
Notes
Oh hey look, turns out this was a JohnxRose thing all along. WHAT A SURPRISE.
Yeah, no, not really. I hope this doesn't get lost in the near-page-100 shuffle, but if it does, oh well.
Funny note! This was originally going to be part of Chapter 4. That would've made Ch. 4 6000 words long, compared to the ~1500-2000 words of the other three. That would've been ridiculous.
This is a thing based on that set of alt-session introductions I did toward the end of the last thread. It's here if you haven't seen it.
It's all the same story, but I split it into four parts to make it easier to read.
I really hope the color I picked to mask the indents actually comes close to matching the background this time, bluh.
Edit: NOPE. I'll just use white again.
Edit 2: GODDAMN IT I forgot the italics. That right there is humiliating beyond words.
Beautiful
Beautiful Colors
. . .You've never actually seen the Rogue before. Yes, you've seen her reflection in her own mind, and in the Seer's mind, but memory is a fickle thing. Her image of herself is blurry and distorted; his image of her is in miniature, filtered by a computer screen.
. . .She's beautiful. You never imagined she'd be this beautiful—in fact, you forced yourself not to. Just because I love her doesn't make her Helen of Troy, you told yourself, over and over. Whatever she looks like, I'm not going to ruin this by expecting perfection.
. . .But it seems you've been deceiving yourself all along, because she is perfect. She's dressed all in grass-green, and her skin is as blue as Earth's sky. Her golden hair frames her face like a halo, and she's running across the platform toward you with her arms open, and suddenly you're hugging and laughing and everything's beautiful.
. . .She pulls away a moment later, grinning. You recognize that grin—countless times, as you monitored her thoughts through the comms, you've felt the muscles in her face tighten in just that way. Up close, you can see that her eyes are lavender.
. . .“It's great to finally see you!” she's saying. You're momentarily surprised at the way her voice sounds—it's huskier than the voice that narrates her thoughts, and you remember that no one hears their own voice quite the way other people do. Her real voice, you decide, is even more beautiful than the inner one.
. . .“I mean, see you in person,” she amends. “The mirror is so limited, you know? It's like looking through a window.”
. . .Even as she speaks, you're scanning her mind, looking for the best way to respond. You're sifting through thoughts, picking them up and discarding the irrelevant ones, when you stumble across something you'd hadn't expected. Your heart seizes for a moment as you examine an hours-old memory.
. . .She chose the colors she's wearing for you. She agonized over them. She wanted to look beautiful for you.
. . .You recover quickly—you couldn't have kept your secret this long if you were stupid enough to visibly react to her thoughts. You know what to say now. You know what she wants to hear.
. . .“It's great to see you too!” you say, smiling. “You look amazing. The colors remind me of spring.”
. . .You're rewarded by the rush of mingled pride and relief that floods her mind.
. . .“Aww, that's sweet of you,” she says happily. “But I guess we'd better get down to business. You wanted to see how the breeding operation's going, right?”
. . .You already know how the breeding operation's going. You came here to see her. The reason you gave her was nothing but a pretense, one more lie among thousands. But of course you can't say that, so you check her thoughts again to find out what she wants to hear.
. . .Ah. There it is. “Actually, I've been looking forward to seeing your paintings,” you say. “Why don't you show me those first, and then we can get to the serious stuff?”
. . .Her grin widens. It's beautiful.
Beautiful Ironies
. . .The Land of Shade and Frogs is aptly named. It's rocky, wreathed in shadow, and silent apart from the chorus of distant croaks. The circular staircase leading up to her Gate is made from the nondescript gray grist her imps drop, and it's hard to make out the steps against the darkness. You stumble once or twice, but she turns and catches you before you realize you're falling.
. . .You're unsure of your footing, so you let her lead; and the advantage there is that you can stare at her without her realizing. You try not to notice how her shimmering green suit clings to her body, because it feels like a betrayal. You know she's more than an ornament. It's what you love about her.
. . .You didn't know her well before the game, but in the Medium you've spoken to her often through the comms. It wasn't long before you started to feel a sense of kinship with her. Both of you are reluctant liars; she hides her face, you hide your sins.
. . .You've watched her grapple with a role that seems all wrong for her, you've felt what she's felt, and there is nothing about her you admire more than the way she survives it. She defies the shadows even as she embraces them, wielding her smile like a blade against the night. She's a walking contradiction, and she's beautiful.
. . .You're almost halfway down the stairs before it occurs to you that everything around you is in grayscale. You look down at yourself, and it's so dark that you can't see the color in your clothes. Yet you can see her colors perfectly, the blue and green and gold and lavender, radiant against ashen sky and dull stone.
. . .You realize that she's glowing, literally glowing. You didn't know her implants could do that. It's not enough to light the way, but she shines just brightly enough to illuminate herself.
Beautiful Lies
. . .Hidden deep inside the gray mass of stairs and platforms is a single point of light. There are no shadows in the Rogue's studio; the walls are covered with a luminescent paint, courtesy of the alchemiter, that lights up the room from every angle. You have to squeeze your eyes shut for a full minute before they adjust.
. . .When they do, she gives you a tour. Her early works are unrefined, little more than random splotches of color, and you both laugh. Her latest paintings are still amateurish, as she freely acknowledges, but you can see that they're still beautiful. She prefers images with broad, sweeping strokes of bright color—rainbows, sunrises, landscapes—and she might not be skilled at realism, but she's somehow conveyed a sense of depth so immersive that you feel like you're falling into the canvas.
. . .You're not really focusing on the paintings she set out for you, though. Automatically, you've been picking the right responses from her mind and repeating them, but what you're really thinking about is the painting she's not showing you, the one you can only see in her head. She hoped you would visit the studio but she didn't want you to see this painting, so she hid it away before you arrived. It's a picture—a sloppy, inexpert, but unmistakeable picture—of the two of you.
. . .This is stupid, you think for what must be the millionth time. You know you like her. You know she likes you. You don't have to guess, you don't have to wonder, you don't have to agonize over what she'd say if you told her how you feel. You know, and this ought to be easy for you.
. . .But of course it's not easy. You can't just ask her out half an hour after seeing her face for the first time. You're not supposed to know she likes you back. You're supposed to hesitate, to test the waters before you take that final leap. And above all, you have to do everything right.
. . .You'll masquerade as the perfect guy. You'll say whatever she wants to hear, stop petty arguments before they start, give her gifts she'll treasure. And when the time is right, when it's not weird anymore, you'll finally tell her how you feel.
. . .You know you're right for each other. You're just making sure you don't derail this with stupid mistakes. That's not so wrong, is it?
Beautiful Discoveries
. . .You've both long since forgotten about the frogs. She's teaching you to paint.
. . .You're trying to paint an image of your planet, the Land of Sand and Haze. Most of it's just light brown, but the clouds are giving you trouble. You bite your tongue to keep from cursing when the brush slips, smearing purple across the canvas.
. . .She's amused, and somehow that makes you feel better. “Here, let me help you,” she says, and she reaches over to guide your hand.
. . .And suddenly you're frozen, you're staring into her lavender eyes and she's staring back, and all you can think about is how soft her hand feels against your own. Her mind is racing—oh god why did I do that I should have known it'd be weird what's wrong with me—and you're terrified because this isn't going like you planned. It wasn't ever supposed to be weird, she wasn't ever supposed to be nervous or upset, and you have to fix this before it ruins everything.
. . .You open your mouth to say the perfect words, something that will dispel the awkwardness like it never existed, when you realize that she doesn't know what she wants you to say. You rifle through her mind desperately, but she's just as confused as you are, and there's no cheat sheet there for you.
. . .She's waiting for you to supply the words, and you start to panic. It's barely been a moment but it feels like you've been standing there for hours, mouth hanging open like an idiot. You're terrified that you'll feel her stop loving you.
. . .You don't know what you should say, and neither does she. So in the end, you don't say anything.
. . .You close out your link with her mind, and you lean forward, and you kiss her.
. . .And it's beautiful.
A/N
Cyborg characters make for all kinds of disturbing premises. Incidentally, the new glow function of the Rogue's implants is a gift from the Maid.
Also, here are all the Transhuman alt-session planets:
Thief of Mind: Land of Sand and Haze
Bard of Time: Land of Caves and Melody
Knight of Void: Land of Frost and Silence
Rogue of Space: Land of Shade and Frogs
Seer of Hope: Land of Thought and Chaos
Maid of Life: Land of Rays and Glass
I'm sure the Rogue really wishes she had gotten the Land of Rays and Glass.
Last edited by ceruleanTresses; 03-09-2011 at 07:31 PM.
When Seraph retires to the corner of the room with three six-packs and a bottle of vodka in tow, people know to stay away. Sure, the booze is free, but the more drunk the guy gets, the more he rambles on and on about his Masters degree and House of Leaves and everything else that eventually just turns to white noise in the background. The talking isn't the bad part. The bad part is when he flops over moaning about how much he sucks, and even from across the room everyone knows what a filthy lie that is.
He lies there drunk in a pool of spilled beer and lantadyme stands over him frowning before leaning over and tucking a fifty into his back pocket for when he's sober enough to know what to do with it.
"Look, Redeemer, I can't keep bandaging those finger wounds. Rivalries are really heating up around here, and I-"
"I know, Dr. Graven..."
"...can't just keep looking after you! People are getting seriously injured out there!"
"Yes, Dr. Graven..."
"Really, do you even need to type up n-teen thousand words per chapter? Honestly! It's killing your hands!"
"Dr. Graven..."
"And do you even know how hard it is for the others and me to keep up with that sort of conte-"
"MISTER GRAVEN, WOULD YOU JUST WRAP MY FINGERS ALREADY?!"
Dr. Graven stopped, stunned.
"Yes, er..."
Redeemer allowed himself to calm before speaking again.
"...I need to get back to work right away, Dr. Graven... Surely you understand."
"Yes, I understand."
Graven took out a bottle of anti-bacterial lotion.
Redeemer groaned.
"Really, doc? Vriska-strength?"
Graven clicked his tongue.
"Well, Skaian... Your finger wounds are particularly deep this time... It may take a while to heal, and we can't take any chances, should your bandages come off."
Redeemer prepared himself.
Outside the office, a worried Doodled patiently waited, after being clocked upside the head when asking lucidSeraph if he could autograph his-
A loud scream interrupted Doodled's thoughts.
Oh... Fuck.
A nearby Mirdan started sweating hard enough to make Equius proud.
Also, I base personalities off of avatars...
Kind of.
In dedication to Nepeta Leijon: The best meowrail anyone could ask for AO3TindeckTumblr
Jim Groovester was putting another chapter of Sapphire of Alternia into words. Obviously he had it plotted out already. If everyone hadn't already guessed the ending by now, he'd be seriously surprised. It was just so predictable.
A rustling sound came from his bedroom. Oh, honestly, not this again. He peered in to see Path, halfway in Jim's window, teeth clamped around the stems of a bouquet of flowers. Jim sighed, and went to get the flyswatter.
When Seraph retires to the corner of the room with three six-packs and a bottle of vodka in tow, people know to stay away. Sure, the booze is free, but the more drunk the guy gets, the more he rambles on and on about his Masters degree and House of Leaves and everything else that eventually just turns to white noise in the background. The talking isn't the bad part. The bad part is when he flops over moaning about how much he sucks, and even from across the room everyone knows what a filthy lie that is.
He lies there drunk in a pool of spilled beer and lantadyme stands over him frowning before leaning over and tucking a fifty into his back pocket for when he's sober enough to know what to do with it.
:/ Darn it, you guys. Now you got me doing it!
AHAHAHA... oh god.
Seraph wakes with his mouth tasting of stale beer and forgotten mornings. The last thing he remembers is explaining quite loudly to someone that the walls were out to get them, man, you don't even know.
But when he wakes he finds a bill in his back pocket.
He stares at it a bit. He hasn't seen a bill this size in... oh god, a year, now? Yeah, a year. Not since grad school started, anyway. His fingers tremble, and he looks around.
Probably Lantadyme, he thinks. He considers trying to return it, but realizes that this would simply become a cycle of apologies and insistence on the other needing it more.
Instead, he grips it in his hand, and resolves to buy a new bookshelf.
When Seraph retires to the corner of the room with three six-packs and a bottle of vodka in tow, people know to stay away. Sure, the booze is free, but the more drunk the guy gets, the more he rambles on and on about his Masters degree and House of Leaves and everything else that eventually just turns to white noise in the background. The talking isn't the bad part. The bad part is when he flops over moaning about how much he sucks, and even from across the room everyone knows what a filthy lie that is.
He lies there drunk in a pool of spilled beer and lantadyme stands over him frowning before leaning over and tucking a fifty into his back pocket for when he's sober enough to know what to do with it.
:/ Darn it, you guys. Now you got me doing it!
AHAHAHA... oh god.
Seraph wakes with his mouth tasting of stale beer and forgotten mornings. The last thing he remembers is explaining quite loudly to someone that the walls were out to get them, man, you don't even know.
But when he wakes he finds a bill in his back pocket.
He stares at it a bit. He hasn't seen a bill this size in... oh god, a year, now? Yeah, a year. Not since grad school started, anyway. His fingers tremble, and he looks around.
Probably Lantadyme, he thinks. He considers trying to return it, but realizes that this would simply become a cycle of apologies and insistence on the other needing it more.
Instead, he grips it in his hand, and resolves to buy a new bookshelf.
You know what I hate? Formatting, is what I hate.
I always write stuff in a Word document first, and then I transfer it over and forget to redo all the stupid formatting.
(also, now that I think about it, this probably wasn't the best time to post a srsfic.)
Originally Posted by Author
There is really no doubt. Jim's Sleuth is the most hard-boiled character ever made.
C20710
