MSPA Fanfiction VI: Trashy Rainbow Drinker Fanfiction

[mutecebu]

Oh my word this thread exploded. I was going to suggest that metafic become an end-of-thread tradition, but at this rate it'll be so "last week" come page 98.

[DragonNinjaAri]

so it's been a while since i posted a chapter of kcutsemoh
but that doesn't mean that me stopping is what is happening here

Kcutsemoh - Chapter 4
In which the last four trolls are finally introduced.

Next time: Karkat attempts to make an important memo and 19 or so assholes troll the hell out of it.

bluh ten pages of fic to catch up on oh wait why am i complaining i love this shit

I un-lurk to say I am always excited whenever this updates and I am so confused about all the changes (IN A GOOD WAY) and will probably end up making a chart. Seriously, keep doing what you're doing, I adore it. I love seeing how everything's changed and the little glimpses into the kids' session? They leave me begging for more. ^^

[A Fan]

Authors notes.

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*As usual, is Increadibly nervous*

Just a parody of what I percieve to be my general status on this thread, which is that annoying guy who pesters everyone for attention with infrequent mediocre fic, with a few good pieces here and there.

I thought I was that guy. Wait, no, I'm that guy whose brain can't shut up and who posts fic of variable quality and is too timid to pester people about it and just kind of rides the ebb and flow of community regard. And who doesn't know the community well enough to feel comfortable writing metafic. So yeah. :P

[Summergale]

eeeeee meta!fic

my brain will work later

maybe

[Dermonster]

@Path Thanks! I'll see about making another when I get the time.

@Seraph I was not complaining about Felt fic. I think. Well I was not intentionally trying to complain about Felt fic, which does not need complaining about. I was parodying my self-percieved status on this thread. Maybe? Goddamnit now I'm confusing myself, urg.

also i have de'ja vu from A Fan's post for some reason.

[JudgeDeadd]

Meta!Lilac

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Graven_Image trembled, and looked up from his computer. Something was wrong. The air in the luxury mansion, an abode fit for a writer of his calibre, was slowly yet mercilessly taking on a tinge of purple.

"Who is there?" he bellowed, standing up and mustering all the courage he could achieve by channeling the spirit of Saxton Hale.

The empurpler stepped out from the shade and violet mist. A silhouette of a man, in one hand a bucket full of semicolons, freshly pried from the centuries-old pages of Poe and Melville, ready for being peppered upon virgin pages; in second hand, a thick tome that seemed to rival libraries with its thickness. A thesaurus. From which to plunder words from the bottommost rungs of frequency lists, all the better to feed spectacular prolixity.

"Hi, Graven!" Judge_Deadd exclaimed, stepping out into visibility. He looked around, taking note of the lilac fog enveloping both of them. "Ugh, sorry. Asked a hundred doctors and I still have no idea why this keeps happening whenever I'm near."

And so I have made my mark on this thread as well.

[Graven_Image]

"These are your father's semicolons. More elegant weapons, for a more civilized age."

[Path]

GRAVEN ILU

[lucidSeraph]

Hey guys, these metafics are hilarious and all, but they are kind of cluttering the thread! Maybe we need a metafic thread?

[Katrika]

Oh god, I've been away too long.

PLEASE FORGIVE ME! PLEASE TAKE ME BACK! I WILL HAVE SOMETHING WRITTEN SOON!

[JudgeDeadd]

Hey guys, these metafics are hilarious and all, but they are kind of cluttering the thread! Maybe we need a metafic thread?

There was a "fan fanfiction" thread somewhere around I think, months ago.

I don't have time to look for it now

[Rio]

Uh. Whats with all the metafics?

[Path]

They're now a meme and the Best of Thread is locked to them. No wait, that's the Image Manip thread.

What's with them? What's with you not writing one? HUH

[Rio]

Because I don't know anyone well enough.

[Decker]

Yeah, I think I'm going to steer clear of this thread for a while now.

[JudgeDeadd]

Wild TIME appears!
JUDGEDEADD uses POKE BALL.
Success! TIME was caught!

Give a name to TIME?
TIME TO FIND THE FAN FANFICTION THREAD_ _ _

http://www.mspaforums.com/showthread...A-New-BZZZZZZZ

Maybe that's the right place for the Meta!fics. Unless we would rather create a new thread?

[lucidSeraph]

Wild TIME appears!
JUDGEDEADD uses POKE BALL.
Success! TIME was caught!

Give a name to TIME?
TIME TO FIND THE FAN FANFICTION THREAD_ _ _

http://www.mspaforums.com/showthread...A-New-BZZZZZZZ

Maybe that's the right place for the Meta!fics. Unless we would rather create a new thread?

Naw, let's get with the thread ressurecting.

*e* DOOF. http://www.mspaforums.com/showthread...=1#post4777723

[Brickman]

Inspired by conversation in the NepetaQuest thread, I bring you the first of possibly-many random excerpts from Troll Ender's Game: Shadow of the CULLSAT. Keep in mind that this occurs long before Homestuck, when the Alternian Empire was first reaching space and first discovering that there were things besides each other that it could kill. It's basically the same plot as the original story, only with trolls instead of humans and all of the cultural changes that implies (meaning somehow they manage to be even worse).

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>Ender: Strife!

You've riled him up enough that he's called for the others to stay back. You don't have any particularly black feelings for Stilson, but his for you are quite obvious and quite easy to take advantage of. A good thing, as otherwise you would be sorely outnumbered. He approaches with fists bared, clearly expecting you to do the same. As if you'd stand a chance in a fair fight.

>Pretend to oblige

Stilson takes a swing at your head and you clumsily block it with your arm, then again, somewhat less clumsily. You dodge the third swing and pretend to move in for a very clumsy swing of your own... but pull the bat out of your strife specibus mid-swing and knock him off his balance.

>Make him pay

You swing, again and again and again. He loses his footing. You keep swinging. He loses consciousness. You keep swinging. The bat is stained orange. You keep swinging. You're sure by now he's dead, but swinging hasn't finished serving its purpose just yet. If you're not still swinging that thing in what looks like a blind rage by the time authorities show up they'll probably find you leaking rusty red blood out of a hundred thousand orifices you're not supposed to have. With luck everybody is scared shitless of you now, and with luck you'll be yanked out of this hivestem after this display anyways, but a few people in that crowd are of the type that would probably try anyways, if you don't still look like you're in the kill zone.

If this doesn't get you pulled out through official channels, you're not gonna be sticking around here tomorrow anyways.




>Be the other troll

A young Barefooted Nobody wanders the streets of a thoroughly rotten city. His Interests include observing the system, planning better systems and not starving to death. Although he believes himself to be over two sweeps old it is only today that he will receive a name.

>Arrogant Brat

However, your naming shall not come just yet.

Food is scarce here. Orphans are all outcasts on the run, having escaped culling mandates or pissed off the wrong highblood or merely run all out of luck while being too low-blooded for anyone to bother caring, but any of them who were wealthy before didn't take it with them. Imperial soldiers come around periodically to cull anyone they can catch, and the only reliable sources of food are theft and butchering anyone you can kill. It's pathetic. You could devise a better system in a week if anyone would listen to you.

Right now you're tailing one of the few people you think even might listen to you, a gang leader named Poke who keeps her blood color secret. Like you, only she does so for philosophical reasons while you would probably be beaten to death the second anyone saw yours. The one advantage you have there is that if anyone did see it they probably wouldn't believe their eyes at first.

Your Nutrition Condition is RED, and you estimate that you have 42 hours before incapacitation if you do not find food.

I admit that I probably wouldn't have even started this if the "only today that he will be named" thing hadn't occurred to me and made me chuckle.

[ceruleanTresses]

My last contribution kinda got buried in metafic (and justifiably so, because metafic is hilarious), so I'll just quietly link it here.

It's terrible, so I'm definitely open to constructive criticism. (But not quite open enough to post it in the Critique thread. That place is merciless.)

Also, hell yes Troll Ender's Game.

[Ganato]

Oh for....
I think I only have to read a page or two of updates before I realize there's an entirely new thread.

Metafics are hilarious though!

I guess I should write something for this.

Inspiration!

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Not one of his finest moments, that was to be sure. Depending on who you asked, Eridan had never had a fine moment. Actually asking anybody except for Feferi or himself would probably be "no".

True as that might be, this was the first time he had been covered in ink. Sticky, filthy ink. He had been hunting for a lusus for Feferi, and while he normally did such atop his mighty lusus and with the Crosshairs in his hand, he had been hunting with only his wit and a some-what lame harpoon gun. After having fought his lusus the damn thing had stolen Ahab's Crosshairs and taken off somewhere, and Eridan was now out to prove that he could do fine on his own.

The fact that he didn't manage to put down the squid that was two feet in front of him, proved otherwise.

Luckily for him he had met his moirail Feferi and she had quickly taken off to find some spare clothing, leaving him on a small island just off the coast. But when she returned he wished she hadn't.

"Fef, I can't wwear this!" he said holding out a piece of cloth that was definetly not what he used to wear.

"Oh quit carping, --Eridan. It was the best I could find! As long as you can fit it, it should go swimmingly until you get back to your hive!" she said floating in the water.

"Fef. You found me a tube-top and a miniskirt," Eridan said accusingly holding out the clothes in question.

"Sorry Eridan, but I have to go!" she answered and before he could answer she was gone.

Eridan sighed as he began to peel off the ink-covered scarf. He was just happy that no one would be around while he did this.

What he didn't know was that one troll was watching. Another fact Eridan was impervous to was that this very troll was an artist, one who had not had any inspiration for quite a while.

Two days later a certain blue blood was sitting at his computer, admiring at a new piece of art from one his favorite artists.

"D--> I..."
"D--> I am in need of a towel..."

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Well that was dumb. I don't think I'm cut out to just sit down and start writing

[wilySubversionist]

Er, hi. I'm delurking to say how much I fucking love this thread and all the fic for this fandom. So much talent! So much, in fact, I feel the need to dilute it a little. This is the first fanfic I've written in a decade, so it's probably a little mostly shitty. But I hope y'all enjoy a little.

Walking Far From Home
(xxiii)

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It's all around you, streetlights and the haze of the city. The orange glow that replaces the sun every night pushes in past the thick dust layer on the windows. It makes the truck cab fill with warm color, deceptive, because it’s January and even in the South you can see your breath. Dave’s too cool for a coat, or too big for last year’s, maybe; his quaking body vibrates the canvas benchseat. Too little gas to turn the engine over, but you can flip the key towards you and power on the radio. Distraction.

You twist the knob slowly, one ear cocked towards the dash, pretending to know what you’re looking for. You settle on oldies, cough out a laugh at the chorus of “Brandy, You’re a Fine Girl”. You must have sounded too please with yourself, too smug in your purposefully terrible taste, because Dave’s blond head snaps around to glare through pointed glasses.

“What the hell, man? Really?”

You bop your head slightly, side to side, won’t give him the satisfaction of actually looking down. “This is my jam, yo.”

He grunts softly, folds his arms and tucks them tightly against his chest. You want to chuckle, it’s a pretty adorable gesture of childish frustration even as he's trying to be adult about it, but it would send the wrong message. You can see the point of his shoulder, his elbow sharp and hard, and knowing he is too skinny by half socks the humor out of it anyhow.

Song ends and another kicks in, Rod Stewart trying to be sexy. He doesn’t get through the first verse before Dave groans loudly and uncrosses his arms,violent-quick. You glance down passed the edge of your shades. He’s got his hands crumpled into fists that smack the seat at the sides of his knees.

“What the hell are we doing here, Bro? We’ve been sitting freezing outside this shithole for so long I’m gonna need a herd of St. Bernards with high-pressure kegnecks if I want to thaw out before next week. Why’d we have to come all the way out to the Beltway, huh? Why we sitting in random-ass Joe Joe’s rustbucket with the gun rack and the goddamn Lone Star mudflaps?”

You’d known Joe Joe when you were kids, and you were with him on that field trip to the Alamo in 6th grade, but you hadn’t expected him to take such a hard turn for unironic Texas pride. No, not cool, but doesn’t matter. He asks few questions and does a lot of favors, a good friend. You hold yourself stiffly, even though your stomach is cramping like a bitch and your head is foggy. Soul-tired. You can’t let Dave know you’re feeling the pressure. Definitely can’t let him know his nagging’s actually getting to you. Instant game over.

“Am I even going to school tomorrow? Because at this rate, I’m going to get 2 minutes of sleep and look like I huffed glue with hobos under a bridge.” Kid just won’t stop running his mouth until you, both hands on the wheel, slowly rotate your upper body towards him. You tilt your chin up and raise your eyebrows by a hair; it’s a look he’s been getting since he first babbled in his highchair, shorthand for “You done, bro?” He is now, and his lips press into themselves and vanish.

“Listen, dude, I told you, best way to keep from losing your shit like that is to put a leash on it. Tug a little bit when it tries to leave the yard.” Dave’s left eyebrow hitches up; you can’t see them, but he’s rolling his eyes. Little bro is usually much cooler than this, going with the flow, but he’s cold and it’s the middle of the night and you can hear his stomach snarling from here. Fuck. He ain’t wrong about any of it. “Won’t be much longer.”

“Dude. Seriously, what the fuck is this? A stakeout? You pull some hugely weird shit sometimes, day to day conditions notwithstanding…”

“Damn, laying down some sick vocab!”

Dave’s fists tighten, cheeks getting redder. He’s Going There, no stopping him, and your own temper is rising. Everything fraying his composure presses down on you too, he just doesn’t know. And you are not in the fucking mood to be told.

“Never know when I’m gonna get my ass kicked or trip in a into a massive pile of pervy foam, but that’s just par for the 18 hole suckcourse we livin’ at. But sometimes you really step it up, max effort. Like not even coming home on my birthday? That was really special, man, real cool. But freezing in this fucking parking lot for an hour, no reason other than you just like fucking with me makes that look like a trip to Disney.”

You’re both just staring now, and you can feel his anger hotter than a radiator. Resentment wafts off his face, blurring the air like summer sun on asphalt. And open your mouth and spit right back, “Yeah, man, I know, huge asshole right here. But. You hungry, player?”

Like a slap, shouting the unspeakable. He recoils. You instantly regret it and feel lighter and fluid and now it just rolls out of you. A radioactive containment leak, no stopping it. You don’t even want to.

“So, check it. It’s the 12th and I don’t get a check ‘til the 15th. You ate the last of the Eggos for dinner yesterday, so you know there’s no food in the house. I had a hundred bucks left after the electric, but I still owed the doctor after your last cough, so then it's just twenty-five. Then your backpack ripped and fourteen blocks is too far with all those books, so there that goes. Three days, dog, until we’re flush again and nothing to fucking eat.

“But there’s this chick Shelley who comes to club when I spin and she’s a waitress here but only after 2 in mornin' and I called up Joe ‘cause we can’t walk here and I can't even find busfare in the couch. So now we’re here, in a random dude’s shitty truck in the middle of the night, waiting for some girl, who could lose her damn job but is gonna feed us for nothing anyhow. There’s your why. ‘Cause you’re hungry and it’s the best hustle I got.”

Damn. Shuts him right the fuck up, just locks him down as it shifts the weight off you and onto him too. It’s the best strategy you ever thought of, laying it all out for him. And it’s the worst fucking thing you’ve ever said. Your whole mouth feels sticky and sour. Basically full-on ripped the curtain down between regular kid stuff and the shit grown-ass men have to shoulder. He is ten years old. Barely.

And you can see it, all over his face; he still loses a lot at cards. It’s clear how his forehead creases in the middle and his mouth is slack, you just blew his lobe. Reality KO’s childhood in one round. You can’t fucking believe yourself.

But Dave’s a smart kid, a good one, he’ll handle it, you think— hope. Look at him, already working on patching up the shrapnel of your little truth bomb. Before he turns to focus on the brick wall through the windshield, you see him harden, not shivering now. You want to take it back, to apologize, but if you start now, you will never, ever stop.

“Oh. Cool,” he says, toneless.

Probably once a week you feel it, this guilty nausea. You know you’re fucking up, failing him all the time. Failing him and you don’t know how to do any better. Never this bad before, though, never seen his spine so stiff and his face made of plaster. You haven't eaten in two days yourself, but you've never had less appetite in your life. There’s such a gulf between what Dave needs and what you’re giving him. Just sick inside.

You picture the waitress, Joe Joe, remember Mrs. Cieslewski across the hall from your first place. She showed you how to heat a bottle right, jostled Baby Dave to sleep when you couldn’t get him to. That guy, too, who brought you buckets from his tap after the water got turned off in that first floor squat when Dave was a toddler. You’ve been lucky to find folk to lean on, to have threads to pull, favors to call in. It’s kept you from outright killing the boy through stupidity or want. They’re just kind people, mostly, a little sad for you, worrying about the kid. “Hey, it’s hard,” they say. But you’ve never met anybody that gets it. You don’t even. How do you be a— fuck, a parent? They’re your friends, neighbors, but just don’t live where you do, because you’re always so lost and roaming.

Sneak a glance to your right; Dave’s still arrow straight, eyes ahead. Perpetual fucking up aside, when you see him, you feel fierce and raw. Like ball lightning. Proud and so, so scared. Also, now, a sharp prick of loss. That ache’s new, a salty wound right in your chest. Maybe it’s the sting of failure deepening to honest-to-God terror. The plan, the way you decided to raise him, is to take him apart and let him put himself back together, stronger. So fucking stupid. Will he even survive all the ways your love is breaking him? Gotta chill, man. Eyes front. You’re both quiet, all uneven breathing and exposed nerves.

Now that you’ve stopped being bastards at each other at top volume, what’s left is the cheesy announcer doing the station ID and starting the next shitty 60’s song. “Hang on Sloopy.” Jesus fuck.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Dave nod, slide towards you a few inches; he reaches for the volume knob and twists. “This track’s pretty sweet, man. Phat beat.”

Biting your style, irony like a ladder out of a hole. You want to grin and scream at the same time, split the difference with a smirk. And wrap your arm around him lightly, rest your hand on a bony upper arm. You are starving for contact, but restrain yourself. Just a little squeeze, you pull Dave against your side. It doesn’t make up for much, no where near enough, but he smiles anyhow, doing a barely-moving cool kid shoulder rock to the music. Tenderness ain’t cool, though, so it’s only a moment before he sasses you up, bright, friendly mockery on his face.

“So, you really scam on chicks that do the overnight at the Waffle House? Standards, dog.” You gotta laugh. Who is this kid, even?

A beatup old sedan pulls up. While Shelley slams her door and starts walking over, you crank the window down halfway and reply, “Check her out, she ain’t too bad. And keep your mouth shut ‘til you get your hashbrowns, aight?”

She’s pretty, dark-haired and slim. Though she must have dyed her hair recently, could have sworn it was blonde before. Smiling, she looks in and greets you, a little shyly. “Hey Strider. Glad you called. That your brother?”

“Sup, Sheila. Yeah, that’s Dave, coolest little man of all time.”

Shit. You called her the wrong name, after all this bullshit you’re blowing it. She’ll get pissed…but she doesn’t, just a “hey” to Dave and invites you in. It’s a little weird. Weird like your arm around Dave’s shoulders.

The angle’s changed, like he’s taller, and as you turn to look at him everything brightens. The misty light pollution dials up a few notches, not blinding but still stinging your eyes. You’re confused, shades gone and now you feel a wet warmth radiating out against your shirt, spreading quickly. You glance down, a short detour before looking at Dave, still trying to suppress panic.

“Bro? What’s wrong?” His voice is tinny and far-away.

Fuck, it’s blood. From where? You curl your arm in —protective, needing comfort— grasping Dave to you.

He’s gone.

Your empty arms trigger the flood, your mind slammed hard against itself. As the stab wound rips and blooms over your sternum, pain bursting through you, you remember. This happened long ago, and he’s already been gone. Outside, everything twists and crumbles, the landscape is shifting and meteors stream down the sky, Jesus. All changing, and you’re completely alone.

You put your head down, touching the top of the steering wheel. Close your eyes, try to breathe, but gasp and sputter instead. Hunched, starting to sob, you think about how long you’ve got left to wait.

Author's notes:

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So, yeah. Sorry about the long. This is part of a multi-part (perhaps too ambitious, but we'll see) megastory about the Dream Bubbles-as-afterlife. I started with the Striderfic because it's like my favorite thing and because if I know anything, it's how to be a piece of shit custodial sibling. I'm gonna go work on some others now.

[Ganato]

Holy fucking shit that was marvelous.
Anybody got that First-pwnst thing?
Jesus Christ get this guy a medal.

I am definitely looking forward to other dreambubble dreams.

[PingZing]

Er, hi. I'm delurking to say how much I fucking love this thread and all the fic for this fandom. So much talent! So much, in fact, I feel the need to dilute it a little. This is the first fanfic I've written in a decade, so it's probably a little mostly shitty. But I hope y'all enjoy a little.

Walking Far From Home
(xxiii)

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It's all around you, streetlights and the haze of the city. The orange glow that replaces the sun every night pushes in past the thick dust layer on the windows. It makes the truck cab fill with warm color, deceptive, because it’s January and even in the South you can see your breath. Dave’s too cool for a coat, or too big for last year’s, maybe; his quaking body vibrates the canvas benchseat. Too little gas to turn the engine over, but you can flip the key towards you and power on the radio. Distraction.

You twist the knob slowly, one ear cocked towards the dash, pretending to know what you’re looking for. You settle on oldies, cough out a laugh at the chorus of “Brandy, You’re a Fine Girl”. You must have sounded too please with yourself, too smug in your purposefully terrible taste, because Dave’s blond head snaps around to glare through pointed glasses.

“What the hell, man? Really?”

You bop your head slightly, side to side, won’t give him the satisfaction of actually looking down. “This is my jam, yo.”

He grunts softly, folds his arms and tucks them tightly against his chest. You want to chuckle, it’s a pretty adorable gesture of childish frustration even as he's trying to be adult about it, but it would send the wrong message. You can see the point of his shoulder, his elbow sharp and hard, and knowing he is too skinny by half socks the humor out of it anyhow.

Song ends and another kicks in, Rod Stewart trying to be sexy. He doesn’t get through the first verse before Dave groans loudly and uncrosses his arms,violent-quick. You glance down passed the edge of your shades. He’s got his hands crumpled into fists that smack the seat at the sides of his knees.

“What the hell are we doing here, Bro? We’ve been sitting freezing outside this shithole for so long I’m gonna need a herd of St. Bernards with high-pressure kegnecks if I want to thaw out before next week. Why’d we have to come all the way out to the Beltway, huh? Why we sitting in random-ass Joe Joe’s rustbucket with the gun rack and the goddamn Lone Star mudflaps?”

You’d known Joe Joe when you were kids, and you were with him on that field trip to the Alamo in 6th grade, but you hadn’t expected him to take such a hard turn for unironic Texas pride. No, not cool, but doesn’t matter. He asks few questions and does a lot of favors, a good friend. You hold yourself stiffly, even though your stomach is cramping like a bitch and your head is foggy. Soul-tired. You can’t let Dave know you’re feeling the pressure. Definitely can’t let him know his nagging’s actually getting to you. Instant game over.

“Am I even going to school tomorrow? Because at this rate, I’m going to get 2 minutes of sleep and look like I huffed glue with hobos under a bridge.” Kid just won’t stop running his mouth until you, both hands on the wheel, slowly rotate your upper body towards him. You tilt your chin up and raise your eyebrows by a hair; it’s a look he’s been getting since he first babbled in his highchair, shorthand for “You done, bro?” He is now, and his lips press into themselves and vanish.

“Listen, dude, I told you, best way to keep from losing your shit like that is to put a leash on it. Tug a little bit when it tries to leave the yard.” Dave’s left eyebrow hitches up; you can’t see them, but he’s rolling his eyes. Little bro is usually much cooler than this, going with the flow, but he’s cold and it’s the middle of the night and you can hear his stomach snarling from here. Fuck. He ain’t wrong about any of it. “Won’t be much longer.”

“Dude. Seriously, what the fuck is this? A stakeout? You pull some hugely weird shit sometimes, day to day conditions notwithstanding…”

“Damn, laying down some sick vocab!”

Dave’s fists tighten, cheeks getting redder. He’s Going There, no stopping him, and your own temper is rising. Everything fraying his composure presses down on you too, he just doesn’t know. And you are not in the fucking mood to be told.

“Never know when I’m gonna get my ass kicked or trip in a into a massive pile of pervy foam, but that’s just par for the 18 hole suckcourse we livin’ at. But sometimes you really step it up, max effort. Like not even coming home on my birthday? That was really special, man, real cool. But freezing in this fucking parking lot for an hour, no reason other than you just like fucking with me makes that look like a trip to Disney.”

You’re both just staring now, and you can feel his anger hotter than a radiator. Resentment wafts off his face, blurring the air like summer sun on asphalt. And open your mouth and spit right back, “Yeah, man, I know, huge asshole right here. But. You hungry, player?”

Like a slap, shouting the unspeakable. He recoils. You instantly regret it and feel lighter and fluid and now it just rolls out of you. A radioactive containment leak, no stopping it. You don’t even want to.

“So, check it. It’s the 12th and I don’t get a check ‘til the 15th. You ate the last of the Eggos for dinner yesterday, so you know there’s no food in the house. I had a hundred bucks left after the electric, but I still owed the doctor after your last cough, so then it's just twenty-five. Then your backpack ripped and fourteen blocks is too far with all those books, so there that goes. Three days, dog, until we’re flush again and nothing to fucking eat.

“But there’s this chick Shelley who comes to club when I spin and she’s a waitress here but only after 2 in mornin' and I called up Joe ‘cause we can’t walk here and I can't even find busfare in the couch. So now we’re here, in a random dude’s shitty truck in the middle of the night, waiting for some girl, who could lose her damn job but is gonna feed us for nothing anyhow. There’s your why. ‘Cause you’re hungry and it’s the best hustle I got.”

Damn. Shuts him right the fuck up, just locks him down as it shifts the weight off you and onto him too. It’s the best strategy you ever thought of, laying it all out for him. And it’s the worst fucking thing you’ve ever said. Your whole mouth feels sticky and sour. Basically full-on ripped the curtain down between regular kid stuff and the shit grown-ass men have to shoulder. He is ten years old. Barely.

And you can see it, all over his face; he still loses a lot at cards. It’s clear how his forehead creases in the middle and his mouth is slack, you just blew his lobe. Reality KO’s childhood in one round. You can’t fucking believe yourself.

But Dave’s a smart kid, a good one, he’ll handle it, you think— hope. Look at him, already working on patching up the shrapnel of your little truth bomb. Before he turns to focus on the brick wall through the windshield, you see him harden, not shivering now. You want to take it back, to apologize, but if you start now, you will never, ever stop.

“Oh. Cool,” he says, toneless.

Probably once a week you feel it, this guilty nausea. You know you’re fucking up, failing him all the time. Failing him and you don’t know how to do any better. Never this bad before, though, never seen his spine so stiff and his face made of plaster. You haven't eaten in two days yourself, but you've never had less appetite in your life. There’s such a gulf between what Dave needs and what you’re giving him. Just sick inside.

You picture the waitress, Joe Joe, remember Mrs. Cieslewski across the hall from your first place. She showed you how to heat a bottle right, jostled Baby Dave to sleep when you couldn’t get him to. That guy, too, who brought you buckets from his tap after the water got turned off in that first floor squat when Dave was a toddler. You’ve been lucky to find folk to lean on, to have threads to pull, favors to call in. It’s kept you from outright killing the boy through stupidity or want. They’re just kind people, mostly, a little sad for you, worrying about the kid. “Hey, it’s hard,” they say. But you’ve never met anybody that gets it. You don’t even. How do you be a— fuck, a parent? They’re your friends, neighbors, but just don’t live where you do, because you’re always so lost and roaming.

Sneak a glance to your right; Dave’s still arrow straight, eyes ahead. Perpetual fucking up aside, when you see him, you feel fierce and raw. Like ball lightning. Proud and so, so scared. Also, now, a sharp prick of loss. That ache’s new, a salty wound right in your chest. Maybe it’s the sting of failure deepening to honest-to-God terror. The plan, the way you decided to raise him, is to take him apart and let him put himself back together, stronger. So fucking stupid. Will he even survive all the ways your love is breaking him? Gotta chill, man. Eyes front. You’re both quiet, all uneven breathing and exposed nerves.

Now that you’ve stopped being bastards at each other at top volume, what’s left is the cheesy announcer doing the station ID and starting the next shitty 60’s song. “Hang on Sloopy.” Jesus fuck.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Dave nod, slide towards you a few inches; he reaches for the volume knob and twists. “This track’s pretty sweet, man. Phat beat.”

Biting your style, irony like a ladder out of a hole. You want to grin and scream at the same time, split the difference with a smirk. And wrap your arm around him lightly, rest your hand on a bony upper arm. You are starving for contact, but restrain yourself. Just a little squeeze, you pull Dave against your side. It doesn’t make up for much, no where near enough, but he smiles anyhow, doing a barely-moving cool kid shoulder rock to the music. Tenderness ain’t cool, though, so it’s only a moment before he sasses you up, bright, friendly mockery on his face.

“So, you really scam on chicks that do the overnight at the Waffle House? Standards, dog.” You gotta laugh. Who is this kid, even?

A beatup old sedan pulls up. While Shelley slams her door and starts walking over, you crank the window down halfway and reply, “Check her out, she ain’t too bad. And keep your mouth shut ‘til you get your hashbrowns, aight?”

She’s pretty, dark-haired and slim. Though she must have dyed her hair recently, could have sworn it was blonde before. Smiling, she looks in and greets you, a little shyly. “Hey Strider. Glad you called. That your brother?”

“Sup, Sheila. Yeah, that’s Dave, coolest little man of all time.”

Shit. You called her the wrong name, after all this bullshit you’re blowing it. She’ll get pissed…but she doesn’t, just a “hey” to Dave and invites you in. It’s a little weird. Weird like your arm around Dave’s shoulders.

The angle’s changed, like he’s taller, and as you turn to look at him everything brightens. The misty light pollution dials up a few notches, not blinding but still stinging your eyes. You’re confused, shades gone and now you feel a wet warmth radiating out against your shirt, spreading quickly. You glance down, a short detour before looking at Dave, still trying to suppress panic.

“Bro? What’s wrong?” His voice is tinny and far-away.

Fuck, it’s blood. From where? You curl your arm in —protective, needing comfort— grasping Dave to you.

He’s gone.

Your empty arms trigger the flood, your mind slammed hard against itself. As the stab wound rips and blooms over your sternum, pain bursting through you, you remember. This happened long ago, and he’s already been gone. Outside, everything twists and crumbles, the landscape is shifting and meteors stream down the sky, Jesus. All changing, and you’re completely alone.

You put your head down, touching the top of the steering wheel. Close your eyes, try to breathe, but gasp and sputter instead. Hunched, starting to sob, you think about how long you’ve got left to wait.

Author's notes:

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So, yeah. Sorry about the long. This is part of a multi-part (perhaps too ambitious, but we'll see) megastory about the Dream Bubbles-as-afterlife. I started with the Striderfic because it's like my favorite thing and because if I know anything, it's how to be a piece of shit custodial sibling. I'm gonna go work on some others now.

Everything I bolded is a lie. This was lovely. That twist at the end was totally jarring in the most perfect way--awesome to hear you you're writing more of this.

[ceruleanTresses]

Seriously that was awesome.

[wilySubversionist]

Oh, jeez, guys, thanks! I really appreciate it.