MSPA Fanfiction VI: Trashy Rainbow Drinker Fanfiction

[ProspitDreamer]

So I've been kind of wanting to expand on something I wrote earlier

And that's getting underway now, here's hoping I come up with enough to continue it

Re: Champion - Prologue

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Millennia ago, before the First Conquest of Alternia shackled them to their fates as caretakers of the next generation, even before the Grand Unification that saw the warring nation-states of trollkind unite under one government, the lusus naturae had their own ways of life. Simple, yes; tribal, yes; shamanistic, yes. But before the myriad species of lusii were subjugated and forced into symbiosis with their conquerors, they told their own tales.

Perhaps none were quite so relevant to this story as the legends passed down by the lusus carcinus.

“Behold! For he descends from the heavens even now; the Great Unifier, Cancer’s Right Hand. A youngling shall emerge from the caverns and his appearance shall challenge the blistering heat of the sun itself. Remain ever-vigilant, my children, for he is our last and greatest hope.”

-roughly translated excerpt of Biblios Carcinus, “Canto of the Champion,” verse 10:25

----------

The rock fell from the sky in the early morning, awakening the creature as it screamed through the atmosphere. It’s the only one of its kind who makes its living in this relatively remote location, so it makes ready (somewhat begrudgingly, having been awoken so rudely) to arrive at the site of the impact.

It is not prepared to discover what awaits it, because this defies all logic.

In the exact center of the crater, lying atop the broken stone fragments but clearly very much alive, lays a troll youngling (wriggler, the creature’s mind corrects). Was it here before the impact and somehow miraculously survived? But it’s so far away from the brooding caverns. No, that can’t be it, but the alternative (that it somehow arrived via the meteor) is insane.

In any case, the creature now has a duty to attend to. It approaches the little one, scoops it up in shelled claws and takes it back to the nesting grounds.

(A lusus will do what is best for its charge.)

----------

"SO LONG, YOU LITTLE SHIT. I HOPE YOU DON’T FUCK UP AS HARD AS I DID."

The wriggler has no idea what the tall one meant by these words, or even that he’s talking to him. All he is certain of is that soon after, his surroundings have drastically changed. Gone are the others he played with briefly (he hopes he will see them again soon); all that remains is the sound of surf crashing against the beach behind him and the echo of the meteorite’s crash ringing in his auditory channels.

Before he drifts off to sleep (because, between crawling around the ectobiology lab and his latest adventure, he is rather tired), he notices a large, clawed figure approaching. The wriggler gives only the quietest of protests as it lifts him off the cooling stone. Its hard, smooth, slightly damp carapace is comforting, and he is asleep before too much time passes.

----------

He is four sweeps old, and he thinks he knows why he and his lusus live so far away from other trolls now.

The lessons have taught him that his race’s society is founded on a hierarchy, determined by the color of one’s blood. Purplebloods sit at the top, the ruling class, and the Empress bleeds brightest purple of all. Below them lies the blue aristocracy, and below them the green middle class. Lower than that are the yellow, rust and maroon.

But, he does not meet any of these distinctions. He’s not royalty; his blood is too red. He’s not a commoner; his blood is too bright. He’s an aberration, an affront to the hemospectrum, a fluke in the genetic code. He must have been sent to live away from troll society, so as not to taint it.

(In the back of his mind, he knows this is a capital offense, and tries not to think about meeting his end at the hands of the cull squads.)

----------

He is seven sweeps old, and he knows he must take action if he is to survive long enough to be eight.

Staying on Alternia is not an option; when the recruitment ships come, they are very thorough. No troll escapes their sight, and refusal to enlist is as worthy of culling as treason in the Empire’s eyes. But, going willingly will simply reveal his secret (the color of this slop that runs through my veins) and end with the same result.

His research on the Alternet turns up an experimental chemical cocktail, mostly peddled by the shadiest of dealers with the illest of repute. It goes by many names; Hemoshift, Chromomine, Sanguitussin, Chameleodose; mostly used by lowbloods aiming for higher stations in life than they were ever meant to achieve. A months’ supply of the raw materials needed to synthesize it costs half his month’s scarab allowance.

But it’s either this, or death before his time.

----------

He is eight sweeps old, and the recruitment ships have come planetside for their annual rounds. Sooner than he had hoped, in fact, because he is unsure the drug has had time to affect him.

He approaches them willingly. He has not met many trolls in person, and never has he seen so many in one place. A few of them he recognizes (his best friend, Casparr, among them).

One, he does not recognize, but wishes he did as he finds himself staring at her. Slender frame, shoulder-length hair, her pearl-white smile and striking red glasses…

“She’s beautiful,” he whispers to himself.

“Eh, what’s that? Speak up son, I can’t hear you over all this commotion.”

He snaps to attention and realizes he’s finally at the front of the sign-in line. The recruiter asks him again. “Your name, son. What’s your name?”

“Oh, sorry. Karkinos Histrellin.”

The recruiter taps the name into the husktop. “That’s strange, we don’t have you on file.” Oh, right, the whole raised-apart-from-society-because-you’re-a-blight-on-it thing, of course he wouldn’t be on file.

“Any chance my information was lost?”

“Ha! Wouldn’t be the first time. Fucking bureaucracy, how does it even work? Alright, let me get you set up. How old are you, Histrellin?”

“Eight sweeps, as of three days ago.”

“Alright, you’re in. What are you training for?”

“Threshecutioners, sir.”

“Blueblood, then?”

“…Green, sir.”

“Ha! You’re the first greenblood in ages to sign up for the Threshecutioners. Usually it’s the bluebloods who get into that, but you wouldn’t be the first green. They’ll give you hell for it but eh, I figure you kick everyone’s ass hard enough and they’ll stop giving you shit about it. Okay, just need you to take this pen and sign here, then take this pin and print here.”

He signs his name on the line, and can barely stand to look as he jabs the needle into his finger and presses it against the paper.

He mentally sighs in relief when he pulls his finger away to reveal a partial lime green fingerprint.

“Heh, that’s an interesting shade. You don’t see a lot of limebloods anymore these days. But you’re all signed up now, take your stuff and go here.” The recruiter hands him a keycard and directions on how to get to his bunk, then extends his hand. “Welcome to the Threshecutioners. Glory to Alternia.”

Karkinos shakes the recruiter’s hand. “Glory to Alternia.”

He looks around. The girl from before is nowhere to be seen.

(Well, shit.)

Notes:

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So yeah, remember that one-shot I did about Karkat's ancestor being the hero foretold in prophecy? (haha like anyone keeps up with my shit enough to know what I'm talking about immediately)

I'm expanding on that, gonna make it into a series about his life and campaigns and such, I think

Here's hoping this doesn't suck! Also hoping it doesn't instantly devolve into sloppy Karkancestor/Redglare makeouts (let's at least get a few chapters in beforehand)

Augh. I read Karkatcestor thing you posted before. I thought it then, and I'm thinking it even more now:

you're doing everything I want to do and doing it better

(don't stop)

This was great! Your details were excellent; I had a strong image in my mind in a lot of places, especially the part where he signed up. The delving into the lusus' point of view was really cool, too.

[ceruleanTresses]

This is a thing that happened. I did most of it, but credit goes to Zero for contributing the third line of the first verse (with the juggalo), and to rhythmicSmasher for contributing the third line of the eighth verse (with the grubbers). Thanks, guys!

Original song.

I AM THE VERY MODEL OF A FUCKING AWESOME GENERAL

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KARKAT
I AM THE VERY MODEL OF A FUCKING AWESOME GENERAL,
WELL VERSED IN THINGS AUTHORITATIVE, ROMANTIC, AND TEMPORAL.
THAT BRAINLESS JUGGALO BELIEVES MY LEADERSHIP'S A MIRACLE,
AND ERIDAN CAN BACK ME UP WITH EVIDENCE EMPIRICAL.

I SORT OUT TROLL RELATIONSHIPS BOTH BLUNTLY AND PRAGMATICALLY;
MY ROMCOMS HAVE ENHANCED MY SKILL IN SEEING THINGS QUADRATICALLY.
AND EVERY MINUTE SOME FORSAKEN TROLL IS BEGGING FRANTICALLY
FOR ME TO OFFER SOME ADVICE TO HELP HIM OUT ROMANTICALLY.

TROLLS
For him to offer some advice to help him out romantically,
For him to offer some advice to help him out romantically,
For him to offer some advice to help him out romanti-antically!

KARKAT
MY REALISTIC SELF-IMAGE IS JUST ONE FORM OF MY MASTERY—
I NEVER SHY FROM POINTING OUT THE ERRORS OF A PASTER ME.
IN SHORT, IN THINGS AUTHORITATIVE, ROMANTIC, AND TEMPORAL
I AM THE VERY MODEL OF A FUCKING AWESOME GENERAL.

TROLLS
In short, in things authoritative, romantic and temporal,
He is the very model of a fucking awesome general!

KARKAT
I STAY AWAKE TO KEEP FROM COMPROMISING MY ATTENTIVENESS.
I PUT MY TEAM'S BEST STRENGTHS TO USE, FROM COURAGE TO INVENTIVENESS.
THE DERSIAN KING WILL TELL YOU THAT MY TRIUMPH'S INESCAPABLE,
FOR NEVER IN TROLL HIST'RY HAS A LEADER BEEN SO CAPABLE.

I CAN WIELD MY SICKLE WHILE PERFORMING YOUTH ROLLS ACROBATICALLY,
AND MAKE A SERIES OF INSPIRING SPEECHES CHARISMATICALLY.
INDEED, I'D SAY MY GREATEST ASSET'S MY ADAPTABILITY,
WHICH SERVES ME WELL WHEN I AM SQUELCHING INTRA-TEAM HOSTILITY.

TROLLS
Which serves him well when he is squelching intra-team hostility,
Which serves him well when he is squelching intra-team hostility,
Which serves him well when he is squelching intra-team hostili-ility!

KARKAT
I'LL ALWAYS KEEP THINGS RUNNING TO THE BEST OF MY ABILITIES,
I'VE NEVER BEEN A TROLL TO SHIRK FROM MY RESPONSIBILITIES.
IN SHORT, IN THINGS AUTHORITATIVE, ROMANTIC, AND TEMPORAL
I AM THE VERY MODEL OF A FUCKING AWESOME GENERAL.

TROLLS
In short, in things authoritative, romantic and temporal,
He is the very model of a fucking awesome general!

KARKAT
IN FACT, WHEN I KNOW HOW TO STOP A DOZEN TROLLS FROM FLIPPING OUT
WHEN HALF OF THEM ARE PSYCHOPATHS AND ONE OF THEM IS TRIPPING OUT,
WHEN I CAN TAKE OPPOSING TEAMS AND FORCE THEM TO COORDINATE
AND PROMPTLY SHOUT THEM DOWN WHEN THEY ARE BEING INSUBORDINATE,

WHEN I CAN STOP A BUDDING KISMESIS FROM ENDING VIOLENTLY,
WHEN I CAN BAN THE MORONS WHO WON'T READ MY MEMOS SILENTLY,
WHEN I CAN GALVANIZE THE GRUBBERS WHINING "LET ME OUT OF THIS,"
WELL, THEN IT CAN BE SAID THAT I AM EVERYBODY’S AUSPISTICE.

TROLLS
Well, then it can be said that he is everybody's auspistice,
Well, then it can be said that he is everybody's auspistice,
Well, then it can be said that he is everybody's auspi-auspistice!

KARKAT
I'M TRYING TO BE MODEST, LEST THIS SOUND TOO SELF-PROMOTIONAL,
SO IF I HAVE A SINGLE FLAW, IT'S THAT I'M TOO EMOTIONAL;
BUT STILL, IN THINGS AUTHORITATIVE, ROMANTIC, AND TEMPORAL,
I AM THE VERY MODEL OF A FUCKING AWESOME GENERAL.

TROLLS
But still, in things authoritative, romantic, and temporal,
He is the very model of a fucking awesome general!

[Glee Unit]

ceruleanTresses, of the many delightful things you've written, this is one of my favorites. His rhymes...they are so captivating.

[Kawa]

I just sang the whole thing. It's glorious.

[Raikonos]

That was spectacular. It just flows so well.

[ProspitDreamer]

That was so fun! cT, you have lifted my spirits. Karkat is always funny. Add to him musical comedy...and, well. LMAO. Also, your rhymes were amazing.

[ceruleanTresses]

Aaah, thank you so much, you guys! I never thought I'd be able to finish that one, but I sat down yesterday and everything just kind of fell into place. I'm so glad you like it!

[cephalopodConcupiscence]

Davesprite/Dave is the BEST pairing. I- I didn't know.

a god kissing carrion

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Okay, so sometimes he watches him sleep. Not during the last nap, which hasn't happened yet, and not on any of the other occasions where there are hordes of ogres in the area. But sometimes.

It's not actually an indication of any obsessive squishiness a la shitty YA literature and/or fetid bogs. It's just that he doesn't have anything better to do.

Sprites are basically just very efficient information processors, he's learning, kind of fucking late: a sort of artificial prosthesis for whatever sad stump of natural reasoning power the player possesses. (Irony: he didn't learn this while still a player, making his plans on his short sight. But the more you know.

He probably needs to come up with a new word to apply to situations that are actually ironic. Sometime soon.)

This means a couple of things. It means he gets and keeps more data about the composition of every stillframe moment than Dave will absorb about the world that's his now in all the weeks he'll spend there. Even the hours he'll regurgitate like a mama bird (fuck that metaphor, but it's too late now, gotta keep rolling when you're in a river in egypt and the current is strong at your back) over and over and over again, until they're sheened in sick sweet bile and spit and the seconds have no taste left- he won't learn them as well as Davesprite does the very first time through.

(The very second. But no; because that was before he was this.)

The other thing it means is that even on the very first time through, Davesprite doesn't get to taste the clock face. He knows and knows and knows and suddenly it doesn't mean anything. He can list the hexadecimal of every color in his sensory radius, which is fixed at several fucking miles out, thanks very much. With total objectivity, too; no need to adjust for light and shade, when it's not like he has real eyes to reassure. He checked. There's nothing under the shades but the faint sting of contained lasers. He can even come up with hilarious names and life histories for the colors, about a third of a time. But all it is is, he's analyzing light, bit by byte, and the seen world arrives to his processing centers already broken into manageable parts.

Whatever he's thinking with doesn't bother with synthesis. Synthesis is slow. His gamegiven brain takes glinting shards of reality and transforms them into small fragmentary reactions, the most useful possible content and the most contextually fucking persuasive style of delivery. A translator, not beatsmith.

Qualia, Rose says when he gets around to asking. That's what's missing. And, with completely unabashed interest: you're an effective p-zombie.

P-ghost, he corrects her. P-fucking-feathery-orange-ghost.

Yes, she says, and the ramifications would be enormously important if Earth's finest academic minds were not now a slick bed for meteors. But that's unlife.

Then she excuses herself, claiming desecration duty. Davesprite worries about the desecration, and the worry is a weird, terrible mix of 1. his- the sprite's- self-preservative instincts as a string of code in the greater book she wants to burn and 2. someone with her face was his sister once. His friend and his only.

(3. The someone is still there, a shadow of ownership over those borrowed eyes, an old weight to the cadence of purple text. It's not library property that will ever be returned, Rose Lalonde's skin, but maybe the library came with it. Some kind of wheely deal.)

They saved their friends, the two of them. They saved the whole damn timeline.

(They're a trap, and closing.)

But Dave needs him or thinks he needs him and he does have to sleep.

So Davesprite covers for him. And, yeah, he watches him, too, converts his coulda-shoulda-woulda self in with the rest, because-

Because there's something about adding his alpha presence to the mix that makes it easier for him to pretend that he's reading this space with the nerves of a real boy, not just- receiving it, through every square inch of a permeable pixel membrane.

Dave is a graceless sleeper, drooling onto his stylin' tux and twitching like the vein in Karkat's forehead has probably been twitching for at least the past six sweeps. (And maybe longer, Davesprite thinks; it's possible it was twitching before trolls' distant ancestors evolved a circulatory system. Assuming trolls have circulatory systems. Or evolved. Whatever.) He wrinkles his shirt by trying to nestle into hard tile, and before long the metal grating has divided his soft cheek into pink diamonds.

It is almost painfully uncool. It would be painfully uncool, but even this close to his proper flesh and blood Davesprite can't summon the echo of pain from his human recollection, half-submerged in bullshit as they are. And temperature is Greek to him. Very Greek, in that it's inexplicably a huge part of this game's stage and still basically meaningless, except as one more force to fight.

Dave sweats like a champ while he sleeps, too, the slightly concave place at the base of his skull fucking abrim with perspiration; the trailing ends of hair there gathered dark and gleaming (every separate clump a low-quality gradient from efe9d2 to 937b47).

All in all, Davesprite is kind of surprised Bro hadn't been continually ribbing him about his slumbering douchebag faces, back in the fucking day. But then he guesses Bro probably didn't waste a lot of time watching him sleep. Thank fuck for small mercies.

(He thinks maybe it's easier because here, with the body he used to own so close he can see the fine down on the knuckles, the supplementary hum of his hungry little translating soul recedes, a little. Enough to let the once and fucking future knight in him layer memory over the moment, until the texture of Dave's open mouth registers not as total surface area over two dimensional reduction but as chapped and cushiony and glazed in brilliant, redly reflective drool.)

It's not the only red thing in Dave's face, though. And-

"Whoa," says Dave, opening his eyes the rest of the way.

Whoopsy fucking daisy.

Davesprite whips back, quick as the ectoplasmic goddamn chicken he is, his tail arcing orange through the heat-hazy air. "Good morning, Skaiashine," he says, "are we all ready for the haut breakfast cuisine available on a planet where even the fucking crocodiles eat metal mushrooms?"

Dave just looks at him. The shades have reasserted themselves, by now- couture is a lot more aggressive in the Incipisphere, Davesprite knows, and he wonders if Dave could take them off if he wanted to. (Will later, to his hellacious dissatisfaction, find out.) But the flash of light off black glass is as eloquent as those, you know, rubescent orbs could ever be.

Davesprite meets his gaze steadily, or at least keeps his transparent face pointing the right direction; the part of him that could have been said to be looking back, though, is already lost in a wild wood of trivia and the semicolons that hold the game together.

It occurs to him that there's probably at least one way to bring it back without hitting Dave over the head with something heavy. Proximity and the other him holding the fuck still; those are the things in which he'll catch his fleeing consciousness.

But he does have an actual job here. So he does nothing. He hovers. He digs the silence deep.

"Keeping watch, huh?" Dave says, eventually.

"Yep," says Davesprite.

"Your eagle or at least kinda avian eye misses nothing, right?"

"Yep."

"Fine," says Dave. "Let's go."

They go. After all, there's a game to win.

(Steel jaws to shut. (An end, somewhere, for him.))

[ceruleanTresses]

I made a pesterlog.

BRING OUT YOUR DEAD

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hide spoiler

KARKAT: BRING OUT YOUR DEAD! BRING OUT YOUR DEAD!
VRISKA: Here's one—8 8oon8ucks.
ARADIA: im not dead!
KARKAT: WHAT THE FUCK.
VRISKA: Nothing—here's your 8 8oon8ucks.
ARADIA: im not dead!
KARKAT: SHE SAYS SHE'S NOT DEAD, MORON.
VRISKA: Yes she is!!!!!!!!
ARADIA: im not!
KARKAT: SHE CLEARLY ISN'T.
VRISKA: Well, she will 8e soon, she's very ill.
ARADIA: im god tier! i dont get ill!
VRISKA: Yes you do. You'll 8e stone dead in a moment.
KARKAT: LOOK, I CAN'T TAKE HER LIKE THAT. IT'S AGAINST REGULATIONS.
ARADIA: i dont want to go in the cart!
VRISKA: Oh, don't 8e such a wriggler.
KARKAT: I SAID I CAN'T FUCKING TAKE HER.
ARADIA: i feel fine!
VRISKA: Pleeeeeeeeaaaaaaaase?
KARKAT: WHAT PART OF “I CAN NOT FUCKING TAKE HER” DID YOU NOT HEAR THE FIRST TWO TIMES?
VRISKA: Well, can you hang around a couple of minutes? She won't 8e long.
KARKAT: NO, I HAVE TO GO PICK UP ALL THESE DEAD PROSPITANS AND DERSITES.
VRISKA: Well, when will you 8e in the Veil again?
KARKAT: NOT UNTIL NEXT PERIGEE.
Aradia: i think ill go for a fly
VRISKA: You're not fooling anyone, Megido. Look, 8n't there anything you can do?
ARADIA: i feel happy! i feel happy!
VRISKA: Screw it. Manipul8!
[psychic vibrations]
[sound of metal hitting something unyielding]
VRISKA: Hey, that didn't do anything! You suck at this!
KARKAT: WELL NO SHIT, SHE'S GOD TIER. WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU EXPECTING?
VRISKA: 8luh. See you next perigee, I guess.
KARKAT: I HATE THIS JOB.

THIS IS STUPID.

[lantadyme]

Davesprite/Dave is the BEST pairing. I- I didn't know.

a god kissing carrion

show spoiler

hide spoiler

Okay, so sometimes he watches him sleep. Not during the last nap, which hasn't happened yet, and not on any of the other occasions where there are hordes of ogres in the area. But sometimes.

It's not actually an indication of any obsessive squishiness a la shitty YA literature and/or fetid bogs. It's just that he doesn't have anything better to do.

Sprites are basically just very efficient information processors, he's learning, kind of fucking late: a sort of artificial prosthesis for whatever sad stump of natural reasoning power the player possesses. (Irony: he didn't learn this while still a player, making his plans on his short sight. But the more you know.

He probably needs to come up with a new word to apply to situations that are actually ironic. Sometime soon.)

This means a couple of things. It means he gets and keeps more data about the composition of every stillframe moment than Dave will absorb about the world that's his now in all the weeks he'll spend there. Even the hours he'll regurgitate like a mama bird (fuck that metaphor, but it's too late now, gotta keep rolling when you're in a river in egypt and the current is strong at your back) over and over and over again, until they're sheened in sick sweet bile and spit and the seconds have no taste left- he won't learn them as well as Davesprite does the very first time through.

(The very second. But no; because that was before he was this.)

The other thing it means is that even on the very first time through, Davesprite doesn't get to taste the clock face. He knows and knows and knows and suddenly it doesn't mean anything. He can list the hexadecimal of every color in his sensory radius, which is fixed at several fucking miles out, thanks very much. With total objectivity, too; no need to adjust for light and shade, when it's not like he has real eyes to reassure. He checked. There's nothing under the shades but the faint sting of contained lasers. He can even come up with hilarious names and life histories for the colors, about a third of a time. But all it is is, he's analyzing light, bit by byte, and the seen world arrives to his processing centers already broken into manageable parts.

Whatever he's thinking with doesn't bother with synthesis. Synthesis is slow. His gamegiven brain takes glinting shards of reality and transforms them into small fragmentary reactions, the most useful possible content and the most contextually fucking persuasive style of delivery. A translator, not beatsmith.

Qualia, Rose says when he gets around to asking. That's what's missing. And, with completely unabashed interest: you're an effective p-zombie.

P-ghost, he corrects her. P-fucking-feathery-orange-ghost.

Yes, she says, and the ramifications would be enormously important if Earth's finest academic minds were not now a slick bed for meteors. But that's unlife.

Then she excuses herself, claiming desecration duty. Davesprite worries about the desecration, and the worry is a weird, terrible mix of 1. his- the sprite's- self-preservative instincts as a string of code in the greater book she wants to burn and 2. someone with her face was his sister once. His friend and his only.

(3. The someone is still there, a shadow of ownership over those borrowed eyes, an old weight to the cadence of purple text. It's not library property that will ever be returned, Rose Lalonde's skin, but maybe the library came with it. Some kind of wheely deal.)

They saved their friends, the two of them. They saved the whole damn timeline.

(They're a trap, and closing.)

But Dave needs him or thinks he needs him and he does have to sleep.

So Davesprite covers for him. And, yeah, he watches him, too, converts his coulda-shoulda-woulda self in with the rest, because-

Because there's something about adding his alpha presence to the mix that makes it easier for him to pretend that he's reading this space with the nerves of a real boy, not just- receiving it, through every square inch of a permeable pixel membrane.

Dave is a graceless sleeper, drooling onto his stylin' tux and twitching like the vein in Karkat's forehead has probably been twitching for at least the past six sweeps. (And maybe longer, Davesprite thinks; it's possible it was twitching before trolls' distant ancestors evolved a circulatory system. Assuming trolls have circulatory systems. Or evolved. Whatever.) He wrinkles his shirt by trying to nestle into hard tile, and before long the metal grating has divided his soft cheek into pink diamonds.

It is almost painfully uncool. It would be painfully uncool, but even this close to his proper flesh and blood Davesprite can't summon the echo of pain from his human recollection, half-submerged in bullshit as they are. And temperature is Greek to him. Very Greek, in that it's inexplicably a huge part of this game's stage and still basically meaningless, except as one more force to fight.

Dave sweats like a champ while he sleeps, too, the slightly concave place at the base of his skull fucking abrim with perspiration; the trailing ends of hair there gathered dark and gleaming (every separate clump a low-quality gradient from efe9d2 to 937b47).

All in all, Davesprite is kind of surprised Bro hadn't been continually ribbing him about his slumbering douchebag faces, back in the fucking day. But then he guesses Bro probably didn't waste a lot of time watching him sleep. Thank fuck for small mercies.

(He thinks maybe it's easier because here, with the body he used to own so close he can see the fine down on the knuckles, the supplementary hum of his hungry little translating soul recedes, a little. Enough to let the once and fucking future knight in him layer memory over the moment, until the texture of Dave's open mouth registers not as total surface area over two dimensional reduction but as chapped and cushiony and glazed in brilliant, redly reflective drool.)

It's not the only red thing in Dave's face, though. And-

"Whoa," says Dave, opening his eyes the rest of the way.

Whoopsy fucking daisy.

Davesprite whips back, quick as the ectoplasmic goddamn chicken he is, his tail arcing orange through the heat-hazy air. "Good morning, Skaiashine," he says, "are we all ready for the haut breakfast cuisine available on a planet where even the fucking crocodiles eat metal mushrooms?"

Dave just looks at him. The shades have reasserted themselves, by now- couture is a lot more aggressive in the Incipisphere, Davesprite knows, and he wonders if Dave could take them off if he wanted to. (Will later, to his hellacious dissatisfaction, find out.) But the flash of light off black glass is as eloquent as those, you know, rubescent orbs could ever be.

Davesprite meets his gaze steadily, or at least keeps his transparent face pointing the right direction; the part of him that could have been said to be looking back, though, is already lost in a wild wood of trivia and the semicolons that hold the game together.

It occurs to him that there's probably at least one way to bring it back without hitting Dave over the head with something heavy. Proximity and the other him holding the fuck still; those are the things in which he'll catch his fleeing consciousness.

But he does have an actual job here. So he does nothing. He hovers. He digs the silence deep.

"Keeping watch, huh?" Dave says, eventually.

"Yep," says Davesprite.

"Your eagle or at least kinda avian eye misses nothing, right?"

"Yep."

"Fine," says Dave. "Let's go."

They go. After all, there's a game to win.

(Steel jaws to shut. (An end, somewhere, for him.))

Oh yes! I love how alien and weird this reads. Love the data and the CSS references and it is sort of really creepy to think that he doesn't have eyes under his shades anymore. Very cool. (Write more. I miss Davesprite like burning and you're right, it is the best ship.)

[Cathartes]

I made a pesterlog.

BRING OUT YOUR DEAD

show spoiler

hide spoiler

KARKAT: BRING OUT YOUR DEAD! BRING OUT YOUR DEAD!
VRISKA: Here's one—8 8oon8ucks.
ARADIA: im not dead!
KARKAT: WHAT THE FUCK.
VRISKA: Nothing—here's your 8 8oon8ucks.
ARADIA: im not dead!
KARKAT: SHE SAYS SHE'S NOT DEAD, MORON.
VRISKA: Yes she is!!!!!!!!
ARADIA: im not!
KARKAT: SHE CLEARLY ISN'T.
VRISKA: Well, she will 8e soon, she's very ill.
ARADIA: im god tier! i dont get ill!
VRISKA: Yes you do. You'll 8e stone dead in a moment.
KARKAT: LOOK, I CAN'T TAKE HER LIKE THAT. IT'S AGAINST REGULATIONS.
ARADIA: i dont want to go in the cart!
VRISKA: Oh, don't 8e such a wriggler.
KARKAT: I SAID I CAN'T FUCKING TAKE HER.
ARADIA: i feel fine!
VRISKA: Pleeeeeeeeaaaaaaaase?
KARKAT: WHAT PART OF “I CAN NOT FUCKING TAKE HER” DID YOU NOT HEAR THE FIRST TWO TIMES?
VRISKA: Well, can you hang around a couple of minutes? She won't 8e long.
KARKAT: NO, I HAVE TO GO PICK UP ALL THESE DEAD PROSPITANS AND DERSITES.
VRISKA: Well, when will you 8e in the Veil again?
KARKAT: NOT UNTIL NEXT PERIGEE.
Aradia: i think ill go for a fly
VRISKA: You're not fooling anyone, Megido. Look, 8n't there anything you can do?
ARADIA: i feel happy! i feel happy!
VRISKA: Screw it. Manipul8!
[psychic vibrations]
[sound of metal hitting something unyielding]
VRISKA: Hey, that didn't do anything! You suck at this!
KARKAT: WELL NO SHIT, SHE'S GOD TIER. WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU EXPECTING?
VRISKA: 8luh. See you next perigee, I guess.
KARKAT: I HATE THIS JOB.

THIS IS STUPID.

This is most certainly not stupid. I salute you sir!

[ceruleanTresses]

Miss, actually. But thanks!

[Path]

All in all, Davesprite is kind of surprised Bro hadn't been continually ribbing him about his slumbering douchebag faces, back in the fucking day. But then he guesses Bro probably didn't waste a lot of time watching him sleep.

Well maybe not in your fanfic.

...which is exceptional. I love stuff like this, with description layered all heavy on it and not everything fully explained because the character doesn't really get it all either. Nice work.

[lucidSeraph]

@ cephalopodConcupiscence God, the world needs more davesprite and you deliver. This is elegant and sad, as it should be. well done.

[Domoz]

The Pirate and the Empress (or, Story time with Dualscar)
7/?

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Boatmurder Island is not, by any definition, a nice place. A myriad of poisonous and otherwise generally dangerous creatures live scattered across the island, both above water and below. Trolls have never settled the place, the shoals and reefs surrounding the place make it more of a hazard than a boon, but as far as pirates go Boatmurder Island is a safe a haven as they can get. Particularly right now, with the entire Alternian navy after them and the most important prize they will ever take in their lives tied up in the hold.

Well, not in the hold right at this moment. The Empress stands on the shores of the island with everyone else, still tied, but more active than ever. She could run from here she thinks. She could make it to the water and no one would be able to catch her.

She's still got the same problem with the rope, but she's working on it.

Everyone else is busy setting up a camp of sorts, why sleep on a boat when you're at port?

It is calm for once, and with no storm in sight it seems as though things are looking up. They sit around the blazing fire, laughing and talking. There may have been a few punches thrown in here or there, but nothing less should be expected when trolls gather toghether.

Ariel sits cross-legged on the sand, eyes closed. When he rough housing gets a little too rough she says, “Dualscar, why don't you tell us about your namesake?”

Ahab quirks an eyebrow, “I think we've all heard that story enough times to know it by heart, now”

The red blood's lips twitch upwards, she need not say more. Across the fire from her Rufio speaks up with “Oh yeah captain, I'd love to hear that one again!”

Others pipe up too, Ahab raises his hands and says, “Fine, I'll tell you a bedtime story, you lot of grubs”

A small group of pirates gathers around and leans in towards the fire. Ianthe even stops digging at her bonds for a moment, she is a bit interested., although she would never admit it.

He looks around the fire and clears his throat.
And with that he begins.



“Sweeps ago, I was in the Alternian Navy(the Empress nearly chokes on air, this is far from what she expected).
Now I'm certain you've all heard of Mister Govbian, the oh-so great and feared captain of the Navy itself (A few nods from the group; Ianthe has heard of him, certainly, they've spoken before. He is, to put it nicely, abrasive).
Well, back then he was just becoming a captain, and I had the luck to be on board with him on his maiden voyage. It all went alright for a little while, although Govbian was predictably hard to deal with, all rules, you know the type. And of course he was good for a first timer, but to ambitious. He decided to try and sail to a certain Boatmurder island. In a storm. (A snicker here and there. That's suicide and they all know it).
I'm not entirely sure what the ship hit,though if I had to guess I'd say it was one of the shoals around here. The boat was torn up and in the process I got myself thrown into the drink and into the rocks (he traces one scar from his chin across his lips and up to his right cheek).That was this scar here. Now as for the other...”

He sighs and looks around the fire again, the faces are all eager, or in the the Empress's case resigned to interested. The pirates all know this story, and they know when it's about to get good.

“And so there I was, fresh cut on my face and a storm raging right above the water. My blood got nice and spread around from the storm, and I got the chance to meet the wildlife because of it. A big eel looking thing came up and just looked at me, right in the eye. We just looked at each other, and I swear the thing was intelligent, maybe it was someone's lusus.
I'm trying not to set the thing off, but I guess the thing was just hungry because it lunges right at me. Of course I wouldn't ever go down without a fight, so I punch the thing right in the snout. It's not to happy with me and tries to rip my arm off. I use my other hand to jab it in the eye, and it lets me go for all of about a second, then latches itself on to my other arm. So I kicked it hard enough to break something, because I heard a snap; it let go of me again, only this time I got it in a choke-hold. It thrashed all around, but there was no way in hell I was letting go.
I hold onto it for a minute or too before it just goes straight out limp. I thought I had killed it, so I let it go. It convinced me pretty well, just drifting down to the bottom like it did. I went down to get a better look at at, and it bolts back up and swims off. Not without leaving me a parting gift of course (he draws around the other scar, the one that runs from his left cheek over his nose and onto his forehead). A tail-fin to the head and another scar.”
After that I swam this island to find Govbian and everyone else trying to repair the ship. We were stranded for about a week or so before the boat was seaworthy enough to drag back the port”

Dualscar pops his neck and says, “Well that's that. You all happy?”

A few pirates clap and whistle, but to them the story was much like a bedtime story.

As the sky lightens once again, the trolls disappear from around the fire in their attempts to find somewhere shady to sleep. Soon the only ones left are Ahab and Ianthe.

The Captain stands and looks her in the eyes; with a thin smirk he says “You know I'd bet that the beast is probably still around today. I might have left it with a bit of a hatred for trolls. Who knows?”

Then Dualscar leaves too, though not without waking up a crew member to watch the Empress.

Ianthe sits in the shade of the tree she's tied to and tries to think. Dualscar was in the Navy, that came as quite the shock to her. She wonders about the last comment he made to her as well. Was it a threat? Or simply a warning?

The Empress is holding out the hope that she gets to find out.

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This took forever. I hate writers block and if it were a person I would murder it. Or at least be kimesis with it.

I'm afraid the big block of text+parentheses may have been a bit hard to get around? I'm not really sure of another way to do it, but I'll try an think of a way when I upload it on A03

[TacticGamer]

gotta make this thread be on top of the art forum so it looks like theres new fics

but really there isnt so the people who get disappointed are inspired to make new fics

[draconicAlgorithm]

New fics? I gots one. Haven't done a one-shot in a while, actually...

Prey

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When the juggling pin came hurtling towards her face, Nepeta froze. She was too scared—the pain in her broken wrist was too much—Equius was gone, what was she supposed to do now?—Too many thoughts were running through her mind. They were clouding her judgment, and in the middle of a fight, that could mean death.

Luckily, Nepeta's instincts reacted when her mind didn't. She pulled away from the hit, and while she wasn't quick enough to avoid it entirely, she lessened the force considerably. When she fell to the ground, she was still seeing stars, and she was fairly sure that it had opened a wound on the side of her head, but she was still alive. If she hadn't reacted as quickly as she did, that blow would have killed her.

If nothing else, the attack cleared her head. She could worry about everything else later—for now, she had to worry about surviving. That was always top priority.

She rolled out of the way of another hit. Gamzee slammed his second pin into the floor, cracking the concrete. Of course his weapons wouldn't break—just like everyone else, he had the best weapons alchemy could produce. They wouldn't buckle under a little brute force, not like Nepeta's face.

As she climbed to her feet, Nepeta never stopped watching Gamzee. He lifted his pin lazily, not looking at all perturbed by the fact that his blows seemed not to have killed her yet. If anything, he seemed excited, like he was looking forward to the hunt. He was a predator in his domain, assured of his victory, and Nepeta was his prey.

She weighed her options. Trying to fight him was out of the question. That was how she'd gotten her broken wrist, after all. He was just too strong. The grate that she had leaped from when she had tried to first attack Gamzee was too high to get back to now. It wouldn't serve as a point of escape. However, she knew that not far behind her was a doorway, and beyond the doorway was a hallway that eventually led back into the lab that Equius had gone through. From there, retreat was more plausible. Of course, she had to get there first.

Gamzee was only a few feet away. She wasn't sure if she could put enough distance between the two of them to get away, since she didn't know much about how he moved. The only time Nepeta had ever seen him fight was when he attacked the Black King, long before they'd come to the meteor. He'd moved like lightning and struck before BK could even think of retaliating. It stood to reason that he could duplicate this, if he had the drive. So, that was the real question. Was he determined enough to kill her to do that again? Nepeta couldn't be sure. She would have to take a risk. If he was, she likely wouldn't be able to escape anyway, but if he wasn't...

Nepeta took several quick steps backwards and hastily wiped away a trickle of green blood that threatened to drip into her eye. He simply watched her and smiled to himself, as though he urged her to flee, to make the chase more interesting. She wasn't going to waste the opportunity. She turned and ran.

Her feet pounded the ground, eating up the distance between herself and the welcoming doorway. She glanced back several times, but Gamzee didn't even seem to be giving chase. He plodded along slowly and grinned back at her as though he didn't have a care in the world.

She reached the threshold and kept running. She was determined to put as much distance between herself and Gamzee as possible, and in order to do that, she had to keep going. The movement was jarring her wrist, and she had to keep swiping away blood with her sleeve, but she didn't stop. She didn't even think of pausing until she was in the lab. By that time, her wrist was really bothering her, and the blood was getting annoying enough to hinder her. She had to do something.

She crouched behind one of the large machines and breathed slowly as she tore a strip of cloth off the hem of her pants. She needed a long piece, which resulted in one leg being drastically shorter than the other, but she didn't care. She gritted her teeth and quickly wrapped the makeshift bandage around her injured wrist, doing her best to bind it in place. She stifled a scream of pain, but only just. Once it was bound, though, it actually felt a little better. It would have been better still if she'd had something to act as a splint, but nothing in her sylladex would have worked. Maybe if she met up with Kanaya or Karkitty or someone else nice, they might have something she could use, but until then, she had to make do. If nothing else, she could always make her way to the shitty wand pile and use one of those. As she began to tear her other pant leg for a bandage for her head, however, she heard footsteps in the lab. They were slow, deliberate, and she heard the slight sound of a honk with every step. Fear crept up on her, running cold claws along her dorsal support column. How had he gotten caught up so quickly? She had been there for only a few minutes. Unless—

Of course. He only wanted to appear patient. As soon as she was out of range, he probably ran as well. Why hadn't she thought of this earlier?

She shouldn't have rested. She should have toughed out the pain and gone on. But now, he was in the same room, and—

"Hey, little kitty." The voice was quiet and cajoling, but in the lab that was otherwise almost completely silent, Nepeta could hear it quite clearly. Her heart lurched when she recognized the pet name. Gamzee, the Gamzee that had lived on sopor slime and had been fun and playful, used to call her that. She'd found it cute and endearing at the time, but now... Now it was terrifying.

"HEY, LITTLE KITTY." The voice that followed was loud, boomingly so, and echoed through the lab. Nepeta clapped her hands to her ears, cringing.

"Why don't you come out and motherfuckin' play, little kitty?" The first voice whispered. She heard his footsteps again, coming closer. She was going to have to move, to do something. She had a sinking feeling that he knew exactly where she was.

"COME OUT AND MOTHERFUCKIN' PLAY WITH YOUR OLD PAL GAMZEE." The yell echoed again, filling the room with sound. As it did, the indigo blood drew closer to the computer panel near the edge of the room. He had already caught sight of the scrap of blue peeking round the corner of it.

He walked slowly around the corner, savoring the sight of her crouched against the wall, hiding in fear behind her long green coat. With her hands over her head, he couldn't even see her horns, but there was no where else for her to go. She was trapped. He drew up his juggling pin, the one yet to be stained with her blood, and brought it back down. Her tiny body caved under the impact.

After hitting her once, he couldn't stop. Blow after blow met its mark, serenaded by honks and his own insane laughter. To her credit, she stayed silent through the whole ordeal. In fact, she didn't move at all. Just as Gamzee was beginning to realize that something wasn't quite right, a piece of her fell out from under the coat and rolled to his feet.

It was a severed robot head.

He tore the coat away, revealing that the "Nepeta" he had been pummeling was nothing more than a pile of robot parts, pieced together to look like a crouching body. Her tail trailed out from under it, a final piece obviously meant to convince him of the dummy's authenticity. He hadn't heard the clanking of the metal, either, because the sound was muffled by the coat and overpowered by his honks.

Gamzee's rage took hold of him. His blood boiled, his teeth gnashed, and he roared his fury to the heavens. He smashed the robot head, hit it again and again until it was nothing but an unrecognizable pile of sparking machinery. He smashed the rest of the parts as well, ripped the coat to shreds, took out his anger on everything that had tricked him. All but the trickster herself.

Nepeta crawled in the vents after finding her way back to her shipping room. It was surprisingly easy to move without that heavy coat. Truthfully, she was probably better off without it, now that she was going to be fleeing for her life. From the sound of it, Gamzee didn't enjoy the gift she'd left him. She couldn't help but giggle to herself. The so-called "predator" was no match for this crafty purr-rey!

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Honestly, I can only think of two reasons why Hussie broke the "DEAD" pattern with Nepeta. Either A)he's going to reveal her mangled corpse later in a horrifying way, probably with Karkat finding it, or B)she's not dead. Also, I think she'd be the one most likely to escape from Gamzee because, I mean, didn't she used to hunt beasts in Alternia? Come on, Nepeta isn't a pushover. She might be small and adorable, but not a pushover. If nothing else, she'd probably be able to run away.

In other words, I DON'T THINK NEPETA'S DEAD YET, KTHNX.

EDIT: And now I'm glancing back through stuff and gog dammit why do I have to go to school. It's not even fair, man. There is too much good stuff here to read and I don't have time and I hate the end of the month because I don't have internet. >>

[Path]

The Pirate and the Empress (or, Story time with Dualscar)

I'm sorry I haven't read any P&tE before now, so I don't know if you introduced BOATMURDER ISLAND before now. No, it's not a very nice place. Too full of ANGRY ELEPHANTS and DYING PUPPIES, and there's a tendency for inhabitants to go mad and beat their comrades to death WHILE ON FIRE. It is, in retrospect, a very good place to put trolls, and I can't believe I hadn't put those two things together until now.

Prey

GO NEPS

[sebastian]

The Pirate and the Empress (or, Story time with Dualscar)

I'm sorry I haven't read any P&tE before now, so I don't know if you introduced BOATMURDER ISLAND before now. No, it's not a very nice place. Too full of ANGRY ELEPHANTS and DYING PUPPIES, and there's a tendency for inhabitants to go mad and beat their comrades to death WHILE ON FIRE. It is, in retrospect, a very good place to put trolls, and I can't believe I hadn't put those two things together until now.

Prey

GO NEPS

Oh, gog, Someone must definitely code Troll Fortress. With the four quadrants, and the imperial drones and everything. That would be so awesome.

[Raikonos]

The Pirate and the Empress (or, Story time with Dualscar)

I'm sorry I haven't read any P&tE before now, so I don't know if you introduced BOATMURDER ISLAND before now. No, it's not a very nice place. Too full of ANGRY ELEPHANTS and DYING PUPPIES, and there's a tendency for inhabitants to go mad and beat their comrades to death WHILE ON FIRE. It is, in retrospect, a very good place to put trolls, and I can't believe I hadn't put those two things together until now.

Prey

GO NEPS

Oh, gog, Someone must definitely code Troll Fortress. With the four quadrants, and the imperial drones and everything. That would be so awesome.

Actually, that's sort of already happening.

[ProspitDreamer]

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Honestly, I can only think of two reasons why Hussie broke the "DEAD" pattern with Nepeta. Either A)he's going to reveal her mangled corpse later in a horrifying way, probably with Karkat finding it, or B)she's not dead. Also, I think she'd be the one most likely to escape from Gamzee because, I mean, didn't she used to hunt beasts in Alternia? Come on, Nepeta isn't a pushover. She might be small and adorable, but not a pushover. If nothing else, she'd probably be able to run away.

In other words, I DON'T THINK NEPETA'S DEAD YET, KTHNX.

I hope I hope I hope I hope...though the 'yet' in that sentence is very foreboding...

[Layra]

Oh man, I love everything in this thread, but special love for Prey because Nepeta is a hunter, the only one of the trolls who spent the sweeps leading up to Sgrub killing things to survive, and that doesn't get enough attention.

As for this, I couldn't help myself. The flash just had too much material to work with.
Unwords

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"Ah ub'le f'dadada!"
John peered down at his daughter, who smiled up at him, clapped her hands and repeated herself. "Ah ub'le f'dadadada!"
"Rose?" He called out, "Rose?"
She strode out of the kitchen and looked over at her husband and child. "Yes?"
"Remember when you went all grimdark-y and couldn't speak for a while?"
She nodded slowly. "I recall that incident quite vividly." They decided not to mention the reason she had turned.
"Well, Lily, err," he pointed to Lily, who pouted.
"Ah d' ub'le f'budadada!" the infant exclaimed.
"Are you saying that I've infected our daughter with grimdark?" Rose asked. He blinked nervously and nodded.
Rose sighed and walked over to them, taking Lily in her arms and looking the infant straight in the eyes. Rose's maw opened and out poured those broken syllables and twisted unwords that John had hoped to never hear again, Lily replying with the same.
And then, as one, they looked at him and gave him that all too-familiar half-smile of exasperated affection. John blinked, unaware that females learned that look so early in life.
"John," Rose intoned, "ah ub'le f'dadada." He backed up slowly as she approached, her aura growing heavier and heavier with each step she took.
And then his back was to the wall and Rose was standing over him, Lily held out between them. "Ah ub'le f'dadada."
"Rose-"
John suddenly found his arms full of babbling baby as Rose backed away. "She just wanted you to pick her up." She turned to go back to the kitchen. "And no, she's not speaking in broodfester tongues. You just can't tell the difference between the unholy language of the horrorterrors and perfectly innocent baby talk."
He looked down at Lily who was smiling at him again. He would never understand women. Then he blinked.
"Hey! She called me 'dada'!"

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I don't suppose anyone knows at what age children learn to facepalm.

[billybobfred]

Oh hey it is a Terezi fic.

The Smell of Your Voice

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Terezi was licking various objects in Gamzee's room when he walked in. High as he was, he still managed to find this unusual; they didn't usually interact in any way.

"H33 H33 H33. OH MY GOG, TH1S 1S SO 4W3SOM3."

"hEy, TeReZi. WhAt ThE mOtHeRfUcK iS mOtHeRfUcKiNg Up?"

Terezi turned towards Gamzee. "OOOOH, S4Y SOM3TH1NG 4G41N."

"Uh, OkAy, Uh. MoThErFuCkInG mIrAcLeS uP iN tHiS sHiT?" Somehow, he felt even more confused than usual.

Terezi inhaled deeply. "1 C4N SM3LL YOUR VO1C3! TH1S 1S SOOOO TR1PPY!" she said, grinning wildly.

At this point, Karkat burst in. "OKAY, TEREZI, WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU DIGGING THROUGH GAMZEE'S STUFF? WE HAVE A MISSION TO PLAN OR SOME SHIT. YOU KNOW, IN CASE YOU FORGOT."

"BLUHHHHH, AR3 YOU S3R1OUSLY ST1LL T4LK1NG 1N TH4T 1CKY GR3Y GR4V3L COLOR?"

"WHAT."

"TH3 C4NDY-R3D R34L1TY 1S MUCH N1C3R. AND 1T'S NOT L1K3 4NYON3 DO3SN'T KNOW 4T TH1S PO1NT."

"ARE WE HAVING AN ARGUMENT ABOUT MY TROLLIAN STYLE CHOICES? IS THAT WHAT'S GOING ON HERE?"

Terezi gagged. "BLUH. 1 4M GO1NG TO F1ND 4R4D14." And without even waiting for a reply, she shoved past the two of them and ran off.

"OKAY, I DON'T GET IT. WHAT, DID SHE GET INTO YOUR SOPOR SLIME PIES?"

"tHaT'd Be A mOtHeRfUcKiNg MiRaClE."

"SO, YES, IT DEFINITELY DID HAPPEN. FUCK. I'M GONNA GO MAKE SURE SHE DOESN'T TRY TO EAT JACK NOIR BECAUSE OF HIS DELICIOUS GREENNESS OR SOME SHIT. HELL, THAT MIGHT EXPLAIN WHY SHE ATE YOUR CRAPPY PIES."

Gamzee watched Karkat leave. "mOtHeRfUcKiNg MiRaClEs HaPpEnInG eVeRyWhErE tOdAy." At this point he decided he was thirsty and started looking for a Faygo.

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Blame livejournal for this idea. I'll probably follow this up later, if I don't forget. (i'm totally gonna forget, i have the worst memory ever)

[anonymousComrade]

So, I'm anxiously awaiting the next update

And then I had an idea

And because I didn't also have self-control, I started writing this thing that will inevitably be jossed with the next update

Oh well, I thought it was a fun little idea, at least

John: React.

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When you followed Rose up the final flight of stairs to the roof of the castle, you were expecting a reunion with your father.

To say this is not quite what you had in mind would be a gross understatement.

At first, you reflexively gasp and step back at the sight of Dad and Rose's Mom lying on the roof in pools of their own blood. Your mind tries to rationalize this for fifteen full seconds and goes with the idea that they and Rose are in on an elaborate prank. "Hahaha you got me! Get up, Dad, I know you're not really dead!" you laugh as you approach your old man.

But he doesn't get up. You move in closer. "Okay Dad, prank time is over! You had me going for a second there, but I gotta say, this was a good one!"

Nothing. "...Dad? Dad, you're scaring me. Come on, let's go."

Rose puts her hand on your shoulder and says something you can't understand in the broodfester tongues. Slowly, you begin to realize this was no prank. Her mother and your father were slain here, and you're certain you know the culprit.

"Jack did this, didn't he?" you ask, with tears in your eyes. Rose nods. You embrace her for a while, and she does not protest.

You step back from her and wipe away the tears, because tough guys don't cry, and that's who you've got to be. With the passing of your Dad, you've got nothing to lose. Does this make you a maverick? Perhaps of the street tough variety? The fact that your God Tier clothes are turning black seems to suggest that yes, yes it does.

You turn your back to Rose and heft Fear No Anvil, because you're making a badass pose, and this is no time for silly-looking weapons like the Warhammer of Zillyhoo. "He won't get away with this, Rose. I'll make him pay. You can be sure of that."

Your transformation completes itself as your glasses darken into black shades and fingerless gloves spontaneously poof into existence on your hands. Even the symbol of the wind emblazoned on your chest shifts to a slightly more menacing appearance.

You fly to the next castle and uproot it with a wave of your hand, the wind destroying it at your whims. If Jack is here, you will crush him.

Because you have officially gone antihero.

Notes:

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stupid stupid dumb

seriously I will just write every dumb idea I ever have, won't I

[Jim Groovester]

The Sapphire of Alternia, Part 20

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As soon as Problem Sleuth is out of immediate danger, he begins reviewing the progress of his plan. At the rate he and his team are going he might as well not have bothered with it at all. The Midnight Crew, and especially Spades Slick, have an annoyingly effective habit of ruining the best laid plans.

Sleuth takes a moment to listen to everything happening in the warehouse. The Felt relaying information to each other. Heavy steps echoing through the warehouse. The sounds of a rotary machine gun spooling up. The Felt yelling to take cover because Hearts Boxcars is about to cover them in thousands of rounds a minute. And that he’s tossing his poleaxes at them while he’s doing that. Notably Problem Sleuth doesn’t hear the sounds of Pickle Inspector’s sniper rifle firing every few seconds. It either means he’s dealt with Diamonds Droog. Or that he’s dead.

Problem Sleuth searches through the maze, gazing at the catwalk for Pickle Inspector.

Clubs Deuce: Help out the Midnight Crew.

You hear lots and lots of gunfire inside the warehouse. You just know that Slick and Droog and Boxcars are going to need your help, and you’ve got no time to waste!

You put the time bomb you conveniently have in your hand against the warehouse wall and give it ten seconds to blow.

You feel like there was something you were supposed to do with whatever the thing was you just put against the wall, but you can’t let vague feelings of forgotten purpose get in the way of helping your friends.

But you’d never tell them that you thought that about them.

Problem Sleuth loses his footing and stumbles into a crate as a small explosion somewhere nearby rocks him. Isn’t it a little early for the explosions? The Midnight Crew are still in the warehouse. Problem Sleuth just forgets about it and continues walking through the maze.

He turns a corner with his key drawn and sees a short squat man with a blank look on his face.

==>

Now’s your chance. Do it. Come on. You know you want to.

You can’t do it. You can’t shoot him.

==>

4/? OPPORTUNITIES COMPLETELY WASTED

Sleuth sighs and puts his key in his coat. “Did you help Inspector?” Sleuth asks Dick.

“Yeah. Guy can’t take a punch.” Dick pulls a gummy worm out of his pocket. Straight from the pocket too. It’s probably covered in lint and other gross Ace Dick things. He stuffs it in his mouth and chews it loudly.

Problem Sleuth pulls his key ring out and hands the bent tommy gun to Ace Dick. “Fix it.”

Ace Dick easily bends the key back in place. He hands it to Sleuth. “You need any jars opened while I’m at it, honey?” Dick sneers.

Problem Sleuth runs his hands along his tommy gun. For some reason it seems shinier. Maybe it’s just because he can use it again. “Where is Inspector anyway? Our plan’s gone to hell and we need to start improvising.”

Ace Dick points upward. “Right there.”

Problem Sleuth looks up. Inspector leans over the catwalk and waves goofily. “What’s it look like from up there?” Sleuth asks.

Inspector peers through the scope of his sniper rifle. After a few seconds of gazing he lowers it and looks downward again. “Hearts Boxcars is single-handedly holding off all of the Felt.”

“Good.” Sleuth says. “Shoot him.”

“What?” Dick asks.

“Is that wise?” Inspector asks.

“If Boxcars retreats, the Felt will move forward. Then we can ambush them like we tried earlier.” Sleuth explains.

Dick and Inspector look at each other. They look back at Sleuth and nod. Inspector raises his sextant up to his eye and peers through the scope. After a few seconds of aiming, he fires several times.

“AWWWW WHADDAYA WANT” Sleuth hears Boxcars bellow. Pickle Inspector throws himself flat on the catwalk as one right after another bullet holes appear in the wall behind Inspector, forming gentle curves.

Sleuth hears the Felt yelling, trying to take advantage of the break in fire. Boxcars swears loudly as he’s forced backwards. “Move it!” Sleuth hears Crowbar order.

Sleuth grips his key ring. Dick holds his hairpin. Sleuth waves Dick to follow. Sleuth starts heading back the way he came, towards the entrance. He stops at each corner, peering around it before moving forward. He listens closely, judging the Felt’s positions by their talking. He looks upward, and sees Pickle Inspector following as best as he can on the catwalk, making sure to get good vision on where Sleuth is walking. Diamonds Droog is probably the only person who could’ve spotted Inspector up there, and now that he’s passed out, Inspector should be safe for a little while.

Problem Sleuth turns a corner into a long path between crates. Just as he does, Sawbuck turns the corner on the opposite end of the narrow crate corridor. Following close behind him is Trace. Problem Sleuth pulls his tommy gun to his shoulder and looks down the sights. He’s only got one chance, and dammit is Sawbuck hard to shoot around.

A shot rings out. Not Problem Sleuth’s. Sleuth looks behind him. Ace Dick is still there. He looks forward. Sawbuck has popped away. Sleuth looks up. Inspector has disappeared.

Pickle Inspector: Journey through time with Sawbuck.

The reality is far less pleasant than what you’ve imagined!

Sawbuck is a boor and an oaf and you can not think of a worse partner to travel through time with. You almost wish your finger hadn’t slipped.

Problem Sleuth looks at Trace. Trace is wide eyed in fear and it takes a moment before Sleuth realizes why that’s the case. Sleuth has his gun trained on just the person he needs to shoot and his body guard just disappeared into history. Trace is trying to backpedal but he’s already stepping forward and he can’t move his leg fast enough.

Problem Sleuth lowers the tommy gun from his shoulder to his hip.

Problem Sleuth: Sleuth Diplomacy Lv. 38: IMPROVING TRANSPARENCY.

In the pursuit of a resolution to this conflict that will benefit all parties involved, you decide to make Trace more transparent.

Bullets rip through Trace and paint the crate behind him red. Leg, chest, gut, arm. Sleuth keeps his finger pressed on the trigger. The Felt are hard to kill and he’s going to make sure Trace won’t follow him.

Halfway through the drum Matchsticks and Crowbar turn the corner and return fire. Sleuth pulls himself back into cover. “Get him out of there! Are you just going to let him get shot up like that?” Crowbar screams.

Sleuth looks around the corner. Matchsticks and Crowbar are pulling Trace by his arms. Trace is slumped forward, completely unresponsive. A thick trail of blood follows him where he’s dragged. “Stitch better be paying attention.” He hears Crowbar say.

==>

1/2 GREEN TAILS PERMANENTLY SHOOK. MAYBE. FOR LONG ENOUGH AT LEAST

Sleuth looks at Ace Dick. “That’s one down.”

Ace Dick almost gets a satisfied smirk on his face when Quarters appears behind Ace Dick. Ace Dick turns around in reaction to the look Sleuth must have and catches a punch to the face. With a pop, Ace Dick disappears.

Ace Dick: Journey through time with Quarters.

That doesn’t make any sense. You didn’t go anywhen. You just got punched in the face. You barely even felt it, to be honest.

Hey, where’d Quarters go? And what happened to the rest of the warehouse?

You rack your brain for a few seconds before you decide to just wait until someone explains it to you.

“It’s too bad I’m not supposed to kill you. You deserve it for what you just did to Trace.” Quarters says, pointing his undersized gun at Problem Sleuth. Well, it looks undersized in Quarters’ hands. His green coat is soaked red with blood around the bullet wound to his upper arm. It must not be slowing him down at all, because he’s gripping the gun tight with both hands. “Drop the gun, Problem Sleuth. You’re coming with us.”

“You can pry it out of my cold, dead hands.”

“Oh, I’d like to. But what Crowbar says goes.” Quarters says, grabbing hold of Sleuth’s tommy gun. He pulls on it, but Sleuth’s holds on. “Alright, I can wait for Matchsticks to get her-”

Sleuth pulls a key from his coat and fires six rounds at Quarters. One strikes Quarters’ outstretched wrist while the rest impact in various locations on Quarters’ expansive torso. Quarters lets go of Sleuth’s tommy gun and fires a wild spray out of his own gun while groaning in pain.

Sleuth ducks past Quarters and retreats down a corner of the maze. He takes several random turns, hoping to escape the Felt now that he’s really pissed them off. Not to mention Inspector and Dick both decided now would be a terrific time to go on excellent adventures and bogus journeys. Problem Sleuth is all alone with nothing but a maze of crates and his key ring standing between him and a bunch of dangerous mobsters.

“Coward!” Quarters shouts. Yeah, well, he who fights and runs away is a coward but at least he’s still alive.

“What are you crying about?” Sleuth hears Crowbar ask, as he runs further and further away from the Felt. “You got nothing to complain about.”

“It still hurts like a son of a bitch!” Quarters screams.

“Crowbar, the Midnight Crew’ll be shooting at us in a minute.” Fin tells Crowbar. “Is Trace going to be alright?” Fin asks, not bothering to conceal the concern in his voice.

“You tell me.” Crowbar says. “Does he still have a future trail?”

“I don’t want to look.”

A sober moment passes between the Felt. “I don’t know, Fin.” Crowbar says. “But you need to suck it up, tough guy, because you’re going to soak up a lot more bullets by the time the night’s done, and I don’t want to hear any complaining.”

“Got it, Crowbar.” Quarters groans.

“Now get a move on it. Problem Sleuth is all alone and like hell we’re going to let the Midnight Crew get to him first.”

Problem Sleuth takes in his surroundings. There’s a giant hole here in the warehouse wall. Clubs Deuce’s handiwork, obviously. Sleuth could head through it, run his way to the car and take it and drive away to safety, but Inspector and Dick would be all alone when they pop back in from whenever they are. And Problem Sleuth still has things he needs to do inside the warehouse. He leaves the hole and moves on.

And then he trips over a short crate or something and lands on his stomach. Problem Sleuth isn’t entirely sure what it is, but with all the cards flying around he has a good idea. He rolls over onto his back and props himself up on his elbows. Clubs Deuce has just skedaddled his way into Sleuth’s shins, scattering the contents of his deck of cards onto the floor around him. Already he’s sitting up, rubbing his head. He sees Problem Sleuth.

“OH!” Clubs Deuce exclaims. “HI, PROBLEM SLEUTH!” Clubs Deuce greets cheerily. Clubs Deuce then grabs the card nearest to him and starts beating Problem Sleuth with it.

C4 doesn’t make for a very good bludgeoning instrument but all the same Problem Sleuth is still nervous about it. “Stop that, dammit!” Sleuth shouts.

“OH, SORRY.” Deuce says. “I’LL TRY USING SOMETHING ELSE.” Deuce picks up another card at random. Now, the crook of felony, that hurts.

“No, I mean stop beating me with anything in arm’s reach!” Sleuth shouts, blocking Deuce’s blows with his hands. “What are you even doing it for anyway?”

Clubs Deuce pauses his thrashings as he thinks it over. “I DON’T REMEMBER. BUT I’M SURE THERE WAS A GOOD REASON!”

Problem Sleuth stands up. “How about you go ask Diamonds Droog what it is and get off my back.”

Deuce puts a finger to his chin. “THAT’S A GREAT ID-”

Sleuth punches Clubs Deuce and knocks him over. Clubs Deuce sits up. “HEY!”

“Shut it, shorty.” Sleuth snaps.

Sleuth starts walking away but stops himself as he hears a faint ticking noise. He starts searching around for the source of the sound. It isn’t anywhere on the ground near him, and wherever he moves it doesn’t get any louder or softer. Sleuth stuffs his hands inside his pockets and pulls out a ticking time bomb.

Some of Deuce’s cards must have fallen inside Problem Sleuth’s coat when he tripped over the short little guy. As he turns the timer off Problem Sleuth gets an idea. He picks up a few of the scattered cards that Clubs Deuce is trying to pick up. “You mind if I borrow these?”

“NO, BUT BE CAREFUL WITH THEM. THEY’RE DANGEROUS!”

“Thanks, Deuce.”

Sleuth puts the cards in his pockets and starts walking to the hole in the side of the warehouse. “DROOG!” He hears Deuce shout. “I FOUND PROBLEM SLEUTH, BUT I COULDN’T REMEMBER WHAT I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE BEATING HIM UP FOR!”

Sleuth breaks into a run. He turns a corner in the maze and sees the broken warehouse wall. He glances to his right to see Crowbar with Matchsticks and Quarters at his flanks. “There!” Crowbar shouts.

Sleuth starts sprinting. He grabs hold of his hat and pushes his head down, ducking below the torn metal siding. Crowbar gets a few shots out of his submachine gun, but hits nothing.

Sleuth pulls out his keyring and throws his back against the outside warehouse wall, catching his breath after the sprint.

“Shit.” Matchsticks swears.

Problem Sleuth hears the crack of a radio. “Slick, get your ass over here. Bring Boxcars. The Felt are between us and Sleuth.” Droog calmly says.

The wall reverberates with the sounds of heavy fire and through the hole Sleuth hears nothing but shouting and guns firing and crates splintering and bullets ricocheting and the clink of a single grenade. Sleuth’s left ear rings as the grenade explodes.

Problem Sleuth runs away from the firefight and hugs the outside wall as he makes his way to the front entrance. He turns the corner and sees two green sedans, parked right in front of the front entrance of the warehouse. Problem Sleuth creeps to the entrance and peeks inside.

Spades Slick and Hearts Boxcars must have reinforced Diamonds Droog and Clubs Deuce damn quick, because the fight is going well in their favor. The sounds of the fight are rapidly approaching the entrance. He sees one green coated bastard take cover behind a crate and fire his weapon blindly.

Problem Sleuth turns to the green cars and pulls one of Clubs Deuce’s cards out. He sets the timer for thirty seconds and starts walking towards one of the cars.

Clubs Deuce: Bring out the big guns.

In between one step and the next a rocket flies out from the warehouse entrance and punctures the frame of one of the Felt’s cars. A moment later the car lurches upward as it explodes.

==>

1/4 VILLAINOUS VEHICLES TOTALED
1/? DEATHS NARROWLY AVOIDED. POSSIBLY MORE. YOU DON’T REALLY KEEP TRACK
1/? INADVERTENT FAVORS PERFORMED

As Sleuth shields himself and gets knocked over by the blast it crosses his mind that the car probably wasn’t the intended target of that rocket. The Midnight Crew must be trying to end the fight quickly, bringing rockets to a gun fight.

Problem Sleuth picks himself up and grabs the time bomb. He jogs to the other car and tosses it in the back seat. He starts running away from the blast but a giggle interrupts him. Oh no. Not him.

Sleuth slowly walks back to the car. If it’s who he thinks the giggle belongs to then that bomb isn’t going to go off. He circles around the car. Hiding from the action behind the car is Clover. He giggles as soon as he sees Sleuth.

“You shouldn’t be doing that.” Clover giggles. “Bombing people’s cars is not a very nice thing to do.”

Sleuth stuffs his hands in his pockets. Time to try and outwit this lucky bastard. If it’s even possible. Because Sleuth sure as hell won’t be hurting the guy. “I don’t think your boss has very nice things in store for me if he gets his way. Why don’t you have a problem with that?”

Clover giggles. “Because it’s fun to watch.” He giggles again. This guy is just giggling the place up.

Sleuth looks at the entrance. He can see most of the Felt taking cover. No sign of the Midnight Crew, except for the effects of their deadly weapons. “What are you doing out here? The rest of the Felt are gonna get torn up without you in there.”

“Oh, no. They’ll be fine. But I have to be here. Crowbar told me to.” Clover says. “He says I need to keep the cars safe.”

Sleuth looks at the flaming wreck of the other Felt vehicle. “You’re not doing your job.”

“I know.” Clover giggles. “But I’ll do my job with this one.”

Sleuth looks at the timer. Ten seconds. “You should probably clear out of here. That bomb’s going to go off any second now.”

“No it won’t.” Clover says proudly. “It’ll turn out to be a dud or the timer will break. Something incredibly lucky like that.”

Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Oh, come on.

“See?” Clover says.

“I hate you guys. You never play fair.”

Clover giggles.

Problem Sleuth: Stop playing fair.

“Do you know how lucky you are?”

“Yes.” Clover giggles. His face suddenly turns serious. “What do you mean?”

“You’re lucky the problem sleuth you’re trying to capture is here to heroically save your life from an explosion that looked like it wasn’t going to happen.” Problem Sleuth smirks.

A realization dawns on Clover’s face. Then a look of horror. “No, that wouldn’t be lucky at all. That would be terribly unluck-” Clover sputters.

Problem Sleuth grabs Clover and rushes him away from the explosion that didn’t happen. Almost like the bomb is waiting for Clover to get out of harm’s way, the car explodes like it was supposed to the moment Problem Sleuth clears the blast radius.

==>

2/4 VILLAINOUS VEHICLES TOTALED
1/1 LUCKINESS LOOPHOLES UTILIZED

Sleuth is knocked forward, and he wraps his arms around Clover. Not because he wants to protect the bastard but that’s just how his luck works. The wind gets knocked out of Sleuth as he lands.

“Are you alright?” Sleuth wheezes as he stands himself up. Clover answers but Sleuth just ignores him. Sleuth huddles behind the flaming wreckage of the Felt’s getaway cars as he catches his breath. He looks at the entrance. The Felt are practically toeing the exit.

Diamonds Droog: Check time.

You’d check your watch but you only wear it because it’s stylish.

You’ve got your own sense of timing and it’s telling you it’s right about time.

Midnight Crew: Fall back.

The firefight suddenly goes quiet. The Felt are poking their heads up, wondering what’s going on. Slowly, they stand up out of cover. “Huh. The Midnight Crew just stopped.” Matchsticks reports.

“Something’s wrong.” Fin says.

Crowbar stands up and walks to Fin. “What is it?”

“I don’t know.” Fin says. “Something’s just wrong.”

Crowbar gives a dissatisfied look. “Keep your eyes open.” He orders, not really knowing what else to say. He walks out of the front entrance and looks at the wrecked cars. “Do I have you to thank for this, Sleuth? This all comes out of my discretionary income, you know.”

Problem Sleuth pulls his key ring out and loads a new drum. He remains silent.

“He’s right here.” Clover points Sleuth out.

“It’s over, Sleuth.” Crowbar says. “Don’t make this difficult.”

Problem Sleuth remains silent and finishes reloading. He’s going to have to be quick. Quicker than all the Felt if he wants any chance of getting out of here alive.

Warehouse: Explode.

The supports on the outside of the warehouse blow apart, producing a massive fireball. The walls and roof of the warehouse collapse inward in flames. Crowbar gets blown back several feet. The waves of heat blast over the top of the car as it lurches away from the blast, pushing Sleuth forward.

After the rubble settles and the fireball dies down Problem Sleuth looks over the car. Only about a third of the warehouse has collapsed in on itself.

==>

0.363/1 INNOCENT WAREHOUSE CASUALTIES

Completely unsurprising, given who rigged the building to explode. Still, Sleuth is glad he wasn’t inside when it happened. And that he was hiding behind a flaming wreck.

Sleuth isn’t going to let an opportunity like this pass. Almost all the Felt are on the ground from the explosion, if not completely unconscious or dead from it, and for the moment, Sleuth’s got the drop on all of them.

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Blah blah more action. Not much to say about this segment. It's an odd place to end, sure, but this segment is already running pretty lengthy. There'll be about one more part of this and then we move on.

I was thinking about briefly following PI and Sawbuck as they travel through time, but it would've broken up the part too much in favor of a joke that probably wouldn't have been funny anyway, so you'll just have to imagine what could've been instead.

Also holy crap this thing is twenty parts long now. I guess I underestimated how long it would take to get through this thing when I threw out my initial guess of twenty parts.

This new font makes my directional quotation marks not show up properly. It shouldn't be hard to figure out what's going on from context, though.

And at some point I'm going to make a bunch of comments, but right now won't be it.