MSPA Fanfiction VI: Trashy Rainbow Drinker Fanfiction

[Shinji Shazaki]

If I actually manage to post two updates on the same page, I will have to laugh a little. That or be sad at the potential page-ending position the eighth chapter of Retroversion Dissolution will have. Que sera sera.

Featuring mysteries caused by paradoxes, a curious chatlog, and the appearance of another of the trolls, the Heir of Rage, who is hunting the Rogue of Mind.

This story makes me smile.

Then again, so does Frontierstuck. Thus, to chapter five!

Do enjoy, good folks.

[KarneWarrior]

KaRkats Inferno

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She lies still, breathing her last.
His purpose found, but too far past.
Her price is paid
A vow is made.
To save a friend, a hero to be.

He hefts up his blade, long and curved.
He looks at the Maid, long since burned.
"Keep this place in line,
I'll be back in time."
To save a friend, a hero to be.

To the edge of hell he flew,
Spirit vengeful but new.
To the very gates of evil's door,
To take her back, forever more.
To save a friend, a hero to be.

The gates loomed gold above him,
The fires wreathed and burned him,
But still he strode, Forward forever more.
Oh yes he strode, forever more.
To save a friend, a hero to be.

Through the fires of hell he walked,
Through the valley of death, he did not balk,
He did not shirk his duty,
For she was love and truest beauty,
To save a friend, a hero to be.

He saw the circle first, floating above the rest.
Of the twelve hells, this was best.
It had the least punishments in store.
It had the lesser pains in store.
To save a friend, a hero to be.

The demons approached him, spewing black thoughts into his ear.
"You have walked into that which you most fear."
"The world belives you dull," they say,
"The world belives you annoying," they say.
To save a friend, a hero to be.

He saw below circle two,
Gusts of foul ash they blew,
Into the cavern, ever dark,
Of bloodred stone and spiny bark,
To save a friend, a hero to be.

The demons rose in a single cloud,
And said to Karkat in voices loud,
"WE SEE YOU, LITTLE TROLL!
"WE WILL NOT LET YOU REACH YOUR GOAL!"
To save a friend, a hero to be.

Although they grasped with slimy claw,
And though they came as if a wall,
He hacked and slashed his way through,
Leaving demons bleeding in a bloody pool.
To save a friend, a hero to be.

Once again, below he sought,
Circle three, the land of drought.
The princess fish, once wet and happy,
Was dried out, he scales now sticky and sappy.
He stopped for her, in circle three.
To save a friend, a hero to be.

"Water please!" She begged and cried,
And grains of salt gathered in dried out eyes.
And Karkat, knowing the risk,
produced a flask, and gave her a sip.
To save a friend, a hero to be.

But save her from death, he could not,
For there was yet one he sought.
He bade her be patient, a little more,
He would be back, to Death's door.
To save a friend, a hero to be.

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RHYMES SUCK ASS.
POEMS SUCK ASS.
I HATE POETRY.

[Qiam]

crossposting from the Genchat thread after some craziness

you get to figure out who's talking here

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-- meanDiagnostician [MD] began pestering elevenLives [EL] at 11:13 --

MD: So I figured it out
EL: figured out what.
MD: What you were lying about
EL: oh, you're a clever one, aren't you.
MD: Well, that's what everyone tells me
MD: Anyways, you were lying about not knowing about Sdrug or whatever it was called before
EL: sburb.
EL: and yes, that was one of the things i lied about.
EL: i knew what is was but i had no idea it was this incredible.
EL: the technology and the paradoxes and the wibbly wobbly stuff.
EL: it's just so COOL.
MD: Okay, I get it, you're a space alien or something
MD: What I want to know is why you lied
EL: because i didn't trust any of you.
EL: i pick the humans i tell secrets to very carefully.
EL: and well, i didn't get to pick any of you.
EL: i have very high standards, you see.
MD: Trust? Look, everybody lies
MD: It's a universal constant
EL: maybe.
EL: but just because someone lies doesn't mean they're untrustworthy!
EL: does this mean you don't trust me?
MD: Of course not
MD: You claim to be from another planet in the future
MD: Or the past
MD: I don't really give a crap which it is, time travel is stupid
MD: My point is you're clearly a nutjob
MD: Maybe that's what you should be lying about
EL: hey!
EL: firstly time travel is neat.
EL: second, has anyone ever told you that you're rather cynical.
EL: even for a human, i mean.
EL: humans tend to be pretty cynical.
EL: it's almost endearing.
MD: I like to think I go beyond cynical
MD: Someone should make a new word to describe the level of cynical I am at this point
EL: conskeptithropic.
MD: That works
MD: We're getting off topic though
MD: Why should I trust you
EL: because you need me!
MD: I don't need anyone
EL: au contraire! i have quickly ascertained our roles in this game.
EL: and, using my unique experience with time travel,
MD: Ugh
EL: i have gathered quite a bit of knowledge about this game!
EL: well, game isn't quite what i'd use to describe it, but i already invented a word today.
MD: Are you going to get to the point or am I going to die first
EL: grumpy grumpy!
EL: anyways, what i'm trying to say is that the point of sburb is to create a new universe from scratch!
EL: and that's impossible to do alone!
MD: What

[SeptimusMagistos]

Dear Karkat:

I think my moirail's kissmessis is all wrong for her - entirely too dangerous for one thing. But I really don't want to switch from pale to ashen. Is it socially appropriate for me to seek an auspistice for the two of them?

[PingZing]

I have been terrible at reading and responding to this thread lately. Summer malaise, man, it's bad. Hopefully I'll find time and willpower to go back and actually respond to some people later! Still, I managed to crawl out of my stupor long enough to write some more

Hot Blooded: Chapter 14

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Hope.

Such a simple word, for such a lofty promise. It meant surviving to see one more moonrise. It was carried on the wings of news that the supply caravan had made it through unharmed. It made soldiers fight harder, medics work faster, and the wounded heal better. Tarfus had always been amazed at the difference a little morale boost could make. From the bitter old veteran resigned to his fate to the trembling fresh recruit, the renewed vigor and fighting spirit in their eyes as good news spread through the encampment had never failed to awe him a little.

It had been hope that had lead Tarfus to attempt to overthrow the most powerful and influential troll on the planet. Hope for a better future, hope that someday he could walk the streets without fear of death if he so much as scraped an elbow. Hope that one day both he and every other troll might be judged by their individual merit, rather than the color of their blood.

Right now, it was hope that kept him trudging forward, putting one foot in front of the other. Hope that he could accomplish his goal of demanding answers from the aforementioned most powerful troll in the world.

He had no plan. He had no idea how he was going to get past her guardemolishers. He had no idea what he was going to say to her, no idea how he was going to get his answers. Such reasoning and planning was beyond him at this point. Every step he took sent a bolt of pain lancing up into his left arm, through his jawbone and into his head. Every beat of his vascular pump made his bruises throb, his wrist flare with fresh agony and his head pound. All his focus and mental concentration was dedicated to pushing his assorted aches and pains into a distant corner of his mind and keeping them there. What remained of his focus was expended simply planting one foot in front of the other and remaining upright.

He reached the end of the hallway and fumbled the door to the servants’ access open. He half-fell, half-stumbled into the darkened stairwell, where he staggered into the opposite wall and leaned against it, allowing himself a moment to catch his breath. After a moment’s rest, he slid forward, leaving his side pressed against the wall. He slithered his way down the first flight of stairs that way before wedging himself into the corner of the landing below. He took a moment to pant heavily and fight off a swelling wave of nausea threatening to crest right up his protein chute before straightening up against the wall.

This wasn’t working very well. If he was going to get to the first floor, much less get past the Empress’ guard, he was going to need something to take the edge off. He was little more than a bundle of assorted injuries held together by force of will and his clothing. He wouldn’t need long, just something to keep him lucid for long enough to fight his way in. Ten, fifteen minutes tops. Some kind of painkiller that would keep him on his feet just long enough to vent his rage at Her Condescension was all he needed.

And in a flash of inspiration, or perhaps agony-addled stupidity, it came to him. He laughed to himself; the sheer ridiculousness of his idea was too much. He completely failed to notice the stare from a passing servant.

Ten pain-filled minutes later, he fell through the door of the respiteblock he had awoken in earlier. Without bothering to shut the door behind him, he crawled over the recuperacoon in the corner and pulled himself up to the opening. He sucked in a breath before pitching headfirst into the slimy synthetic cocoon.

Slime went up his nose, into his ears and mouth. He surfaced and spat; he was aiming for pain-deadened, not stoned out of his mind. Swallowing the sopor slime would certainly calm him down, but he dimly suspected the only thing keeping him conscious right now was the rage curdling in his gut. Calm was the last thing he needed to be right now.

He allowed himself a moment to sink into the comforting slime and rest. The ooze, heated by his body’s ambient temperature seeped into his clothing and surrounded him in a comfortable layer of warmth. He sucked in a ragged breath and let it out slowly, shuddering, as the sudden lessening of pain stole his breath away. With the pain receding from his awareness, he was left, unfortunately, with lucidity. With lucidity came logic, and with logic came the dawning realization that this was a stupid, stupid plan. Luckily for the plan’s continued existence, Tarfus’ stubbornness had defeated sounder arguments in the past. The fact that the argument against the plan came from Tarfus’ own mind was immaterial. He had made a decision and he was going to stick to it, dammit.

He grunted and looked up at the circle of light above his head and narrowed his eyes. In his current condition, there was no way he would be able to climb out. Plan B it was, then. He took a moment to gather himself before bracing his legs against the end of the recuperacoon and grabbing hold of the lip of the opening above him. He heaved his body weight to one side, and the recuperacoon’s opposite edge came off the floor. As it came back down, he rocked to the other side, and the other edge came a little further off the floor. After several repetitions of this, the recuperacoon paused, balanced precariously on an edge for a moment, before toppling on its side, spilling slime and one slime-covered, sputtering troll everywhere.

He crawled out of the recuperacoon and stood up, wincing. His arm and jaw were still sending jolts of agony through his body every few seconds, but the sopor slime’s pain-deadening properties had reduced the pain to manageable levels. He could only hope that the effects didn’t wear off too soon. Sopor slime wasn’t really intended to be used as a painkiller as far as he knew, and what he was doing right now went far beyond simple field improvisation—it was just desperate, and kind of sad. If he survived long enough to make his interview with Lucida later, he would be sure to edit this particular part out of his life’s story.

There was one more thing he needed to take care of before going to confront Her Condescension; a weapon. As he struggled to think of where in the compound he’d be able to find something suitable, he stumbled forward, knocking the stool by the door aside. He heard something tumble from the stool to the ground with a metallic clatter and looked down, frowning. Then his mouth dropped open in shock at what he’d knocked off the stool.

It was a threshecutioner’s sickle.

And it wasn’t just any old battered piece of trash standard-issue sickle either. It was his sickle. The one he’d plucked from Stratet’s nerveless fingers moments after she’d died that day four sweeps ago. He’d kept it in fanatically good condition since then. Its daily polishing and upkeep had become a familiar ritual to the soldiers in his squad.

And it was here.

He’d lost it when he’d been captured at the Imperial palace, taken from him by his captors. The fact that anyone had bothered to recover it shocked him. The fact that it was being returned to him at all positively floored him.

Something on the floor fluttered slightly with the motion of his leg. It was a note. He picked it up and read it.

Apologies for the delay in the return of your weapon. Better it arrive late than not at all. Make good use of it.

There was no signature, but Tarfus had a feeling that this particular gift hadn’t originated with the Empress. She didn’t strike him as the type to apologize for anything. Nor would she see fit to gift him with his weapon—something he had attached an unusual amount of sentimental value to. He had refused to grieve for Stratet's death. Instead, he had honored her memory by treating her weapon with the care and respect it deserved, and being the best damn soldier he could be. Even if he hated it, even if his newly-instated commanding officer had been incapable and arrogant and deadly in his ignorance.

Tarfus shook his head to clear the cobwebs from his memory. The sopor slime was affecting his focus, and he needed to stay sharp. He picked up the sickle and closed his eyes and smiled at the familiar weight in his hand. It was reassuring in a way that had nothing to do with the sharp steel he wielded. Without a weapon, he had felt naked and vulnerable. Now that he had one—and not just any old weapon, his weapon—he felt certain of chance at victory. Not certain of victory, never certain of that. But now that he had a weapon in his hand, he had a chance, and that was more than he truthfully thought he'd had before.

He gave the sickle a few practice swings and nodded happily as it cut through the air effortlessly in the familiar motions of both death and defense. He tucked it into his belt and gave himself a once-over.

Slime-covered, torn uniform. Shooting pains down his entire left arm, rendering it nearly useless. A distant ache in his jaw that worried him, and he knew would become debilitating as soon as the sopor slime's painkilling effects wore off. A distant throbbing behind his ocular spheres in time with his vascular pump's beat that set his various aches and pains set to a tempo of discomfort. Physically, he was in no condition to do much of anything.

But mentally, the rage at the Empress' manipulation was entirely undiminished.

That would have to do.

He stalked out, ready to deliver either justice or vengeance. He wasn't sure which was more appropriate at this point, and didn't really care.

He ducked back into the servants' access again. He didn't think they'd go all the way to the first floor where the Empress resided, but the lower he could get without detection, the better. He was, he admitted to himself, barely in any condition to fight. He had no idea how he planned on handling four guardemolishers in his condition. Not to mention the fact that he'd likely be fighting two at a time. Oh well, he would tear that bridge apart when he came to it.

Even in the darkness of the access stairways, he drew stares from the passing servants. Green slime dripped from the edges of his clothing, and he walked with a pronounced limp. A murderous scowl was perched on his features, and none of the passers-by wanted anything to do with it, lest he direct it at them. They knew when a storm was brewing, and kept their heads down and hurried past him, never making eye contact. Tarfus grimaced. These browbeaten, lowblooded servants were the sort of people his uprising had been meant to liberate. Or so Auva had seemed to think; he'd always shrugged when the others had asked him Why? and said that he was just sick of hiding, and killing the moronic fucking hemospectrum was the best way to be free.

Never mind the fact that there were hundreds of easier ways to live free, never mind the fact that it set his blood boiling whenever he saw a lowblood mistreated for no reason other than whatever unfortunate color their lifeblood had been shaded. He'd just done that because he hated seeing those highblooded bastards getting their jollies fucking around with people, all right? Get off my goddamn case.

He found himself on the bottommost landing of the stairwell, and hesitated. Once he entered the hall, there was no backing out. It was almost certain that he would run across guards, and there was no way that his appearance would go unremarked-upon. And in his experience, guards' remarks about armed, sopored-out lowbloods shambling around the halls tended to be awfully cutting. Mostly literally, but occasionally figuratively if one of the guards had been blessed with more than a handful of thinkpan-cells. Fortunately, this was not often the case, and Tarfus intended to use this to his advantage.

Still. He could back out now. Go back to his respiteblock. Curl up in his now-empty recuperacoon and sleep until he stopped hurting.

He pushed open the door. If he ran away and waited for all his pain to disappear, he'd never leave that block again.

With an effort, he schooled his features into an expression of worried urgency, and affected a heavy limp while clutching his side with one hand. Given the severity of his actual injuries, it didn't take a career in Trollywood to look the part. He found himself in what he took to be an underwater hallway, given the lack of windows and the increased presence of those damned aqualamps. The shifting light and shadows thrown off by the aqualamps played hell with his peripherals, and it took every ounce of his frayed self-control to avoid jumping at every flicker of motion.

He limped his way toward the first pair of guards he saw, making sure to look both injured and important. He stopped in front of them, panting and doubled over. He took a moment to make sure he had their attention before looking up and making eye contact with the closest guard. Tarfus mentally exulted when he saw that the guard was a navy-blue blood, clearly new. His eyes were wide as he took in Tarfus' injuries, and his hand shook slightly where it clutched his spear.

Perfect.

Tarfus made a show of gasping for breath before forcing out, “Message...for the Empress! Report...from Eastern Eleventh Legion...they've been pushed back over the river!”

The other guard, older and more suspicious frowned at Tarfus. “They've been forced across the river? But that's miles away from their front lines. How come you're the first we've heard of this?”

Tarfus bared his teeth at the other guard. “Why...the fuck do you think I can barely breathe? It barely happened an hour ago.”

The other guard relented slightly. “All right...let's see some identification, then.”

Tarfus slowly straightened up and pushed himself into the older guard's face. “You fucking obstructive moron, I don't have it. You know why? Because I got ambushed coming back. You think all these injuries,” he said, holding his arms out and looking down at himself, “Are for decoration? If I don't get a message to the Empress right the fuck now, we may very well have an enemy army camping out on our front steps by tomorrow evening. You want to be responsible for that?”

The older guard grimaced and paled. “Fine. But we accompany you.”

Tarfus jabbed a finger at the other guard. “Leave Quivers here. Somebody needs to man the post, and he looks like he'll pass out if he tries to move.” The other guard glared at Tarfus but said nothing. Tarfus diplomatically ignored him and started forward. The older guard scurried to keep up.

Tarfus took long strides and prayed his body didn't give out before he had a chance to make it all the way to the Empress' chambers. One of his legs shook violently with every step he took and it was a struggle to keep his vision from blurring.

“This way,” the guard said, leading Tarfus through a series of turns.

He struggled to hold the layout in his mind in case he needed to escape after this was over. Left, right, right, left again, down the main hall and toward a doorway that took him onto a large staircase. The same wall-to-wall staircase he had originally descended to end up in front of the Empress' chambers, in fact. It appeared that doorways lining the walls of the staircase led deeper into the complex. He had missed that fact on his first journey down the staircase, and was now several feet away from the staircase, still in the hallway. He leaned against a wall panting, and his guide turned to look at him scornfully.

Tarfus looked up at his guide and beckoned him over breathlessly. “Need...need a hand here...”

The guard scowled and turned back to assist Tarfus. When he bent down to extend his hand, Tarfus whipped out his sickle and buried the tip in the guard's throat. The guard thrashed and made piteous whistling sounds, but was unable to scream properly—Tarfus' strike had pierced his windpipe. Tarfus whipped his sickle out through the side of the guard's neck, spilling cerulean ichor on the floor and dragging the guard to the ground with the force of the movement. He landed with a thud, and thrashed weakly for a moment before stilling, a puddle of indigo slowly widening around him.

Tarfus frowned, wiping his sickle on the guard's shirt before resheathing it. He hadn't meant for that to be so messy. There was no way he'd be able to remain incognito with nigh-royal purple blood on his clothing. Looked like he would be fighting his way through no matter what. Still, it was worth the risk—the chance he would be exposed before the guardemolishers was too high to assume any other outcome. When that happened, the guard would have just been another opponent in a fair fight. Tarfus hated fair fights. They had a nasty habit of giving the other guy a shot at winning. He was pushing his luck as it was—he knew he would have to take on at least two guardemolishers simultaneously. Adding another enemy to the mix was asking for more than just trouble.

After a moment's hesitation, he shoved the body into a darkened corner near the doorway and made his way onto the grand staircase. With any luck, it wouldn't be discovered for at least a few minutes. Even when it was, it may take longer for anybody to care enough to send up a cry. He doubted any of the lowblooded servants owed any of the highblooded guards favors. It wouldn't surprise him that they would turn a blind eye toward a particularly purple corpse. It wouldn't mean much, but the extra time the indifference brought on by class disparity could mean the difference between life and death.

He began descending the staircase heavily, making judicious use of the banister along the near wall. He didn't feel hurt enough to need to lean on them as heavily as he was, but he knew just how much the sopor slime was dulling his sensations right now. Just because he didn't feel like it was necessary didn't mean he'd fall into the trap of not actually feeling it necessary.

So he climbed down the staircase, hand over hand, putting one foot in front of the other, and finally made his way to the landing at the bottom, where a pair of guardemolishers waited for him.

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, without looking at either guardemolisher, Tarfus casually drew his sickle. He tossed it up and down in his hand a few times, still avoiding looking entirely at either guardemolisher. Finally, when the silence had grown thick and oppressive, he looked up, and locked eyes with one of the other trolls. He received a flat stare in reply, completely devoid of emotion, and forcibly repressed a shiver. The guard earlier had been suspicious, uncertain and panicky. There was no such uncertainty to be exploited here—the troll in front of him would kill him if Tarfus offered violence, or if the Empress ordered it. Full stop, no question about it. Tarfus had rarely run into that sort of fanatical devotion, and it unsettled him.

Still, he had to try. He may have been covered in blood, slime, and who knew what else, but that didn’t mean peace was completely out of the question. Just that it was very, very far away from the question. Possibly to the point where binoculars were required to spot it. He clenched his jaw and said, “I’m here to see the Empress. Are you two gonna tell Pupa-Dee and Pupa-Dum behind that door to let me through, or am I going to have to go through you myself?”

Neither guardemolisher responded, save for a slight narrowing of their eyes. Their hands already rested on the hafts of their sickles, ready to draw the instant Tarfus made a move in their direction.

Tarfus sighed. “Hey look, this is my surprised face,” he said, his expression not changing at all. “Oh well. Round two nookwhiffers. Let's go,” he said, stepping forward, sickle held in front of him. Both 'demolishers drew their sickles, but did not move otherwise. Tarfus shrugged. “Yep, didn’t really expect you waterboys to so much as piss without the Empress’ say-so. Worth a try though,” he said, showing his teeth.

The ‘demolishers narrowed their eyes further, and Tarfus hid a grin by lowering his head and charging, sickle-point held forward. He met the ‘demolisher on the right with a peal of metal on metal as the ‘demolisher parried. The ‘demolisher had reversed his weapon such that the concave edge faced outward, turning it from an offensive, piercing weapon, into a defensive, slashing one. Tarfus grunted, and reminded himself that it wouldn’t pay to underestimate these two. They were members of the elite guard for a reason.

Tarfus’ blade was swept aside, and his opponent brought his own sickle whistling toward Tarfus’ chest. Tarfus stepped back and crouched, catching a thin slash along his ribs, and barely avoided being scalped by the second ‘demolisher. While crouched, Tarfus reversed his grip on his sickle and buried the point in the boot sole of the ‘demolisher on the right. With a savage grunt, he straightened, pulling the ‘demolisher’s leg out from underneath him. To Tarfus’ dismay, the ‘demolisher did not fall backward in a heap, but bent his other knee and landed with a leg and a hand underneath him. Tarfus was forced backward by the swinging sickle of the other ‘demolisher. He blocked desperately, and the two blades locked. Tarfus found himself locked in a struggle of strength as the ‘demolisher leaned his body into the push, attempting to overbalance Tarfus. Tarfus fought back, planted his feet and locked his arms. The sharpened curve of the ‘demolisher’s sickle edged inexorably closer and Tarfus realized he had made a potentially fatal mistake.

He had been fighting under the assumption that he was actually in fighting condition. The sopor slime’s painkilling properties had filled him with a sense of confidence that was proving to be false, as his now-wavering arm attested. Slowly, inch by inch, the ‘demolisher’s blade approached his face. Tarfus knew that if he lost another inch, he’d lose whatever leverage he had, and the ‘demolisher would be able to flip the sickle out of his hand with ease. He was in trouble, and desperately needed a way to back out. It was times like these that he was glad that he’d been taught hand-to-hand combat by Kulath Stratet, rather than any other soldier. He’d learned a great deal of unorthodox techniques for dealing with every kind of combat situation. He mentally prepared himself to pull an advanced technique from his arsenal, and with reckless abandon, let it fly.

He kicked the ‘demolisher in the shin, hard, and threw himself backward as the ‘demolisher let off the pressure for a split second. He landed flat on his back and the air whooshed out his breathing sacs. Time seemed to slow and Tarfus was able to count the individual beats of his vascular pump.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

With the sound of distant crashing of the surf growing in his auricular spongeclots, Tarfus found sounds muffled. He got an elbow underneath him, and then another, and began pushing himself upward. But something went wrong somewhere along the line. It felt like an axe had buried itself in his forehead and then been set alight before being doused in acid. The pain robbed him of his senses, and his vision whited out—

—and he found himself lying in the dust of the training field of six sweeps ago. Stratet stood above him, an avenging demon silhouetted and backlit by the burning glare of the sun. A hot trickle of blood ran down his forehead and her sickle swept toward him. He knew she would pull the attack, sweep it aside at the last second to slam into the dirt bare millimeters from his head. All the same, he couldn’t stop himself from lifting an arm up in a futile gesture of defense—

—then he was back on the spotless floor of the underwater compound, only now it was a guardemolisher’s sickle speeding toward him. A guardemolisher who would not pull his punches, and would not take pity on the poor, pathetic, fallen mutant-blood. Tarfus raised his left arm up in a futile gesture of defense.

Snicker-snack went the sickle as it parted flesh from bone, and bone from body. Tarfus fell back and his head gently thumped against the tiled floor. The pain came slowly, and from far away, like the rising tide before sweeping in and washing away his consciousness in a tsunami of agony. The last things he heard before blacking out were his hand, now parted from his body, thumping wetly into the tile, and a distant female voice.

Sounds familiar, he thought, and then knew no more.

Notes

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This entire chapter was something of a shaggy dog story, but there was no way Tarfus could be allowed to be remotely successful in the condition he was in. Figuring out a way to get him down to the bottom level without passing out from pain was tricky. When I came up with the sopor slime idea, it was epiphany central in my brain. Couldn't stop giggling to myself the entire time I was writing it. I was this close to making him accidentally swallow some, resulting in him spending the rest of the chapter a little loopy.

[renachan]

So I am writing right now, and I made a playlist of music to help me with writing. And it's working quite well, but like... 99% of the playlist is depressing music, I have gotten tears in my eyes from how sad the songs are. But the fic is a happy fic. But the songs are still helping.

Mind I don't even.

Just, what? Anyone else notice that, having songs that have NOTHING to do with the mood you are writing helping you write? It's all very weird.

.....And oooooh I need to check Hot Blooded, Ping, but I am focused. Because this stupid story has been sitting on my mind all week and only this morning am I getting writing done. So yes, focus. I just needed to flail and ask if anyone else had this happen. Or if my mind is just a freak like that.

[SkaianRedeemer]

@PingZing: I didn't think it felt like a Shaggy Dog though I suppose it might technically qualify. Besides, the end result will have to carry on to later chapters, so I don't really think it could possibly qualify. Good chapter.

@renachan: Nope! If I'm in the zone it doesn't matter, but otherwise I'm extremely affected by the music that's on when I'm writing. I have an irritating lack of "daunting" and "dismal" themes and my list of "sad and intimate" themes is strictly limited (I blame a musical brain fart that left me with only 1 for the original and probably still lingering repetitive drag of aHiHH's Chapter 9 - the song was only 2 minutes long!), though it's grown a bit lately. I don't know if I'd rather be you in a situation like this, frankly I'd rather be able to do both!

[Graven_Image]

crossposting from the Genchat thread after some craziness

you get to figure out who's talking here

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-- meanDiagnostician [MD] began pestering elevenLives [EL] at 11:13 --

MD: So I figured it out
EL: figured out what.
M What you were lying about
EL: oh, you're a clever one, aren't you.
M Well, that's what everyone tells me
M Anyways, you were lying about not knowing about Sdrug or whatever it was called before
EL: sburb.
EL: and yes, that was one of the things i lied about.
EL: i knew what is was but i had no idea it was this incredible.
EL: the technology and the paradoxes and the wibbly wobbly stuff.
EL: it's just so COOL.
M Okay, I get it, you're a space alien or something
M What I want to know is why you lied
EL: because i didn't trust any of you.
EL: i pick the humans i tell secrets to very carefully.
EL: and well, i didn't get to pick any of you.
EL: i have very high standards, you see.
M Trust? Look, everybody lies
M It's a universal constant
EL: maybe.
EL: but just because someone lies doesn't mean they're untrustworthy!
EL: does this mean you don't trust me?
M Of course not
M You claim to be from another planet in the future
M Or the past
M I don't really give a crap which it is, time travel is stupid
M My point is you're clearly a nutjob
M Maybe that's what you should be lying about
EL: hey!
EL: firstly time travel is neat.
EL: second, has anyone ever told you that you're rather cynical.
EL: even for a human, i mean.
EL: humans tend to be pretty cynical.
EL: it's almost endearing.
M I like to think I go beyond cynical
M Someone should make a new word to describe the level of cynical I am at this point
EL: conskeptithropic.
M That works
M We're getting off topic though
M Why should I trust you
EL: because you need me!
M I don't need anyone
EL: au contraire! i have quickly ascertained our roles in this game.
EL: and, using my unique experience with time travel,
M Ugh
EL: i have gathered quite a bit of knowledge about this game!
EL: well, game isn't quite what i'd use to describe it, but i already invented a word today.
M Are you going to get to the point or am I going to die first
EL: grumpy grumpy!
EL: anyways, what i'm trying to say is that the point of sburb is to create a new universe from scratch!
EL: and that's impossible to do alone!
M What

Doctor Seuss and the Cat in the Hat?

[SkaianRedeemer]

@Graven_Image: I've been sitting here for about ten minutes trying to remember any lines to Cat in the Hat so I could have Nepeta and Feferi playing off of it. I am a failure.

And speaking of failure...

Fic Ideas I've Given Up On that people can use for prompts if they want I guess

Fic 1:

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This Nepeta fic was going to be a transcription of her roleplaying - aka the entire fic would be ridiculous saccharine as she runs about, annoys people, shreds things and reflects on the wisdom of her friend the horse. Chapters would be short (Nepeta's writing style being inspired by short, hundred-chapter fanfics – poor ones) but would include a Mary Sue high fantasy section where she destroys an evil fortress, and would catalogue her attempts to woo Karkitty, finally ending in sadness when he outright rejects her and she returns home to her den and kittens. The chapters would be backed by musical themes (the implication being that she is humming them to herself to maintain atmosphere) and she notes regardless of roleplay that she doesn't want to go where the music "is" scary.

One unexplained note in the fic is that Nepeta has a limp, and that her arm may be broken and tied in a splint. Following that thread, we learn from mounting hints that the fic is set after the death of Equius (I was planning it as it became clearer that he would die - I simply assumed she would live), and that Nepeta survived with a broken arm cobbled together partially from one of his towels since it happened to be on-hand when she was performing first aid, and she sneaks it along with every change of bandages. While she acknowledges his death, has otherwise receded from the others into fantasy absolutely whenever something is not needed from her (explaining a few abrupt cuts earlier in the fic - she was working). Finally, she braves the scary music and ends up in some egrandized fantasy about ancient artifacts that she tries to destroy. Karkat interrupts her attempts to trash Gamzee's old room (the evil fortress from before was Eridan's) and she explodes at him, the fic appearing in the real world for the first time.

Karkat is actually indifferent to Gamzee's stuff (though since Karkat has since called Gamzee a genuine friend in canon, I'd swap this) but is simply trying to talk to Nepeta since she's been avoiding him when not roleplaying (a fact correlated by earlier chapters). Nepeta's emotions are going haywire, and she starts to accuse him of a number of offences that seem grounded in reality but are connected by a train of thought railed only in fantasy. Nepeta is distraught but not out of control, and the more her explanations falter, the angrier she gets at Gamzee's things. That anger turns to Karkat as he continues to try to keep her grounded. This succeeds, if only because she decides to start smashing stuff as Nepeta, not one of her personas. Karkat moves to physical restraint, and during a tussle, Nepeta kisses him.

Karkat rejects this as well, and Nepeta wants to know what's wrong with her that he won't pity her in her grief or hate her in her rage. She accuses everyone of not pitying her despite her loss (this is untrue - earlier chapters showed her playing with Terezi and Kanaya and possibly online with Rose, though I wasn't sure how to hint at that - so it's clear what she's really saying). Nepeta tries to describe why she thought Karkat being there would help so much, but her description (just short of calling him her boyfriend) is full of several repeat adjectives from the earlier chapters (Nepeta having a small bank of preferred words, like a bad fanfic author), and she realizes even as she's saying it that that was still just a fantasy. To save face, and because she legitimately believes it, Nepeta tries to insist that she needed someone to be strong for her after Equius had died, and with that she would have been able to get back on her feet. But Karkat drags out the fact that she's asking him to fake a relationship with her and says that while he doesn't pity her, he pities her enough not to do that to her. He then comes up with a way to vent her energy by selecting some of Gamzee's crap for her to smash, though her heart's no longer into it. Seeing how much being there is affecting him, she instead just helps him clean the room so they can go.

The fic ends when the humans arrive, and Nepeta watches Jade laughing with/at Karkat. Her towel splint has been removed but she still has a strap of it wrapped about her left hand as a band. Jade notices her there and steps aside to talk to her, saying that she sees how Nepeta watches Karkat. Jade says that she doesn't understand the Troll's system, and asks if Nepeta and Karkat are in a relationship. Nepeta, embarrassed, sets to fiddling with Equius' band so to avoid making eye contact, and says no. Jade asks if instead, Nepeta has her eye on Karkat, and Nepeta stops fiddling on the band. She says "yeah… but that's okay. […] That quadrant's going to be full for a little while yet."

Why I Dropped It: What happened? lock it up and leave happened, that's what. Pretty much the day Nepeta died. Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I didn't realize I was tracking my mud in your fine establishment – I'll show myself out.

Fic 2:

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Junior Summer Camp, Troll/Human pre-Sburb AU. Dooooooooooooo iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit. You know you want to.

Why I Dropped It: It seemed like a good idea at the time (no, really, I'm hardly serious most of the time), but then I hit the massive RL workload causing my present delays. Yeah, no more of that.

Fic 3:

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Conversation-log fic (like a pesterlog, but with conversations. We used to get a lot more of them a few threads back). John is not much endearing himself to the surviving Trolls on their first meeting, since he keeps trying to raise their spirits. Only Sollux seems to be on the same wavelength, but Karkat, either because it's right or because John has laid on the last straw of terrible jokes (he muses out loud) decides it's time to take John to see Vriska's body.

Seeing her (though not the idea of seeing her – he keeps it up the whole trip) does set John calm, at least for a while. He remarks after a pause that she's "really pretty" and asks Karkat what it is that Trolls do with their dead, because he figures that'd be what she'd want, after all. Karkat just says that they'd leave her there, which John accepts well enough, but John points out that she'll sort of be in the way. Karkat realizes that "just leave them there" probably works a lot better on ships and settlements full of hungry, fully-grown lusus, and agrees. John moves to pick her up, which Karkat vehemently tries to stop, insisting that John doesn't have to do that, but John is rapidly recovering his peace of mind. When Karkat realizes just how many people on the asteroid have a reason to do something awful to Vriska or a right to not have to dispose of her corpse, he agrees to let John help.

Though Karkat is initially happy to just toss Vriska off the edge, John points out that she could land somewhere else, like Tavros ("it's kind of like an escher painting in here!"), John suggests they put her in the tubes Gamzee seems to have used to stash the other bodies. They do so, and wonder aloud as to the purpose of the things, neither of them saying what they hope the tubes do (this is something I would normally leave unsaid for the reader to infer, but as this is a 'log-style fic, I have to point it out and so planned to do so in the final line). Jade shows up (I love angry Jade + Karkat, why don't I write more of that?), to tend to a subplot (below), and comments on Vriska as she leaves, telling John that he can come visit her if he wants. He says he can't because he and Karkat have some Srs Palfriendleadering to do [TODO: select ridiculous "John" adjective. Johnjective?]. The two of them head off to somewhere less dismal, acknowledging that they're going to have to make their plans under the assumption that Karkat's friends will not be coming back to life.

Why I Dropped It: So that subplot I mentioned ties directly into the fic as a whole, and without it I think the summary above seems seriously lacking. If you agree with me, well, I can't reassure the subplot would have fixed it, but I can't describe it either, because it's the reason I dropped the fic as a whole. The subplot was essentially the main plot of an upcoming aHiHH, and I was not going to cover the same ground twice. That is pretty much the whole of it.

[stuffedAnimal]

Becquerel

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Becquerel growled. His charge was being menaced by others of his kind. Gangsters, no doubt. "hey bec it looks like these jokers wont leave me alone what say you back me up here" The leader of the ruffians laughed. "Oh look, baby wants help from his do-" The reason he is cut short is because Becquerel has torn out his throat. His charge draws his sord and turns to the others, who he takes down with Bec's help shortly. "thanks bec" he says, covered with blood, as he reaches down to pet Becquerel. Bec nuzzles him, his maw stained red. "couldnt do it without you man"

He lived a long, happy life, and died at 32. That was longer than the standard age at that time. Becquerel took care of the man's daughter.

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Becquerel pawed and whined at his charge. Wouldn't she please just eat something? It had been five days since he told her that he didn't love her! Why wouldn't she eat something?

"not now, bec." she said gutturally. He pawed at her and whined, pushing the food he had got her towards her mouth. "just leave me be." Becquerel shook his head. He would not leave her, even if the man she loved did. Becquerel did not like that man. He had made his charge sad. Becquerel tried to open her mouth, but couldn't get a grip that wouldn't hurt her. [Damn these claws.]

Two days later, she died with her heart broken. He mourned her, and wandered the land for years, looking for someone worthy of guarding.

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Becquerel pawed at his newest charge. She was so small! He had never taken care of one this young before! But take care of her he did. She was his old master's daughter, after all. His old master had died in childbirth.

When she was six years of age, she said to him, "Bec? How are babies made?" He slowly put the knowledge into her brain, seeing as he couldn't say anything. She blinked. "Thats weird."

When she was twenty years of age, she met a man and they had children. She died happily at forty.

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"Bec, me and my husband are on to something. We're calling it radiation." [What does it do?] She understood. She was one of the few who understood. "It transfers atoms from one thing to another, and these atoms seem to make living things sick. We named the units after you." [Why?] "Because you raised me." [Thanks!] Becquerel pounced on her and gave her licks. She laughed.

Later she died of cancer.

------------------

Jade lays in the surf. You nudge her with your snout and paw at her belly. You are acutely aware that she is not wearing clothes, and that's not normal for humans. "haha bec! what is it boy? what is it?" [You are not wearing clothes. Here.] You push some of her clothes to her. "bec these dont match!" [I think you should be worrying about how naked you are, not how you look! What if someone came by here and saw you, Jade? What then?] She just skritches you behind the ears. She doesn't understand you. But that's alright. You just have to protect her. And nothing else matters.

[Rimbaum]

Becquerel

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Becquerel growled. His charge was being menaced by others of his kind. Gangsters, no doubt. "hey bec it looks like these jokers wont leave me alone what say you back me up here" The leader of the ruffians laughed. "Oh look, baby wants help from his do-" The reason he is cut short is because Becquerel has torn out his throat. His charge draws his sord and turns to the others, who he takes down with Bec's help shortly. "thanks bec" he says, covered with blood, as he reaches down to pet Becquerel. Bec nuzzles him, his maw stained red. "couldnt do it without you man"

He lived a long, happy life, and died at 32. That was longer than the standard age at that time. Becquerel took care of the man's daughter.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Becquerel pawed and whined at his charge. Wouldn't she please just eat something? It had been five days since he told her that he didn't love her! Why wouldn't she eat something?

"not now, bec." she said gutturally. He pawed at her and whined, pushing the food he had got her towards her mouth. "just leave me be." Becquerel shook his head. He would not leave her, even if the man she loved did. Becquerel did not like that man. He had made his charge sad. Becquerel tried to open her mouth, but couldn't get a grip that wouldn't hurt her. [Damn these claws.]

Two days later, she died with her heart broken. He mourned her, and wandered the land for years, looking for someone worthy of guarding.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Becquerel pawed at his newest charge. She was so small! He had never taken care of one this young before! But take care of her he did. She was his old master's daughter, after all. His old master had died in childbirth.

When she was six years of age, she said to him, "Bec? How are babies made?" He slowly put the knowledge into her brain, seeing as he couldn't say anything. She blinked. "Thats weird."

When she was twenty years of age, she met a man and they had children. She died happily at forty.

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"Bec, me and my husband are on to something. We're calling it radiation." [What does it do?] She understood. She was one of the few who understood. "It transfers atoms from one thing to another, and these atoms seem to make living things sick. We named the units after you." [Why?] "Because you raised me." [Thanks!] Becquerel pounced on her and gave her licks. She laughed.

Later she died of cancer.

------------------

Jade lays in the surf. You nudge her with your snout and paw at her belly. You are acutely aware that she is not wearing clothes, and that's not normal for humans. "haha bec! what is it boy? what is it?" [You are not wearing clothes. Here.] You push some of her clothes to her. "bec these dont match!" [I think you should be worrying about how naked you are, not how you look! What if someone came by here and saw you, Jade? What then?] She just skritches you behind the ears. She doesn't understand you. But that's alright. You just have to protect her. And nothing else matters.

I demand more Bec fic.

[SkaianRedeemer]

I agree, but am less demanding overall, so to hastily assemble a good cop/bad cop routine that results in more Bec fic.

[Rimbaum]

So, uh, over in the Genderfuckery thread, I was inspired to write Bro trying to raise a FTM!Dave. And having some trouble coping with a lot of the different aspects of raising a transgendered kid. Problem is, I think only the first chapter (maybe second, if I'm lucky) will be suitable for the forums, because of the rules regarding kids and puberty.

I already posted it in the Genderfuckery thread, but I think it bears a bit of crossposting here. I'll be announcing updates on AO3 here, too, don't worry.

Big Brother

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Your name is Ambrose 'Bro' Strider, and your little sister Evelyn is going through a phase. At the age of four, most kids start playing pretend and expect everyone else to play along with them. So you humor her. Today, she's saying that she's now a little boy and that her name is Dave. Not David, just Dave. "All right, little si... little bro." She beams up at you, and you figure that this is probably one of the easier, less awkward pretend phases she could've chosen. One kid at her daycare insisted on being Superman, down to refusing to dress in anything but the stupid Halloween costume he'd gotten last year.

You take your little sis to the local Goodwill to get some boy's clothes. Raising a kid is expensive, and most of your extra cash is eaten up in the upkeep of your DJ equipment. So buying a new set of non-frilly clothes would take a good chunk of change that you could be putting towards something else.

'Dave', as she's calling herself for now, doesn't seem to mind. She goes straight for the dirtiest, most torn up shirts and pants. Especially pants. Not surprising, seeing as she's wearing a frilly little set of jeans right now. You insist on at least getting a few outfits that aren't torn up to hell, and she helps pick them out.

She goes to school the next day and winds up in a fight. She says the other boys wouldn't play with her. The day after that, she asks you to teach her how to fight. You say sure, because martial arts is a damn useful skill for anyone to know, guy or girl, and she might need it for self-defense at some point.

You start teaching her the basics, how she shouldn't be using what she learns to go around and beat other kids up just because she knows how. She asks if she can learn sword fighting if she's good with that. You're not sure if she's going to keep up her little obsession that long, but you say yes anyway. It's good discipline and self-control for her if she keeps up with it.

~~~~~

You've just been woken up by the school. Dave's gotten into a fight again. Third time this month, and they're threatening suspension. You grumble that you'll be there as soon as you get dressed. You wouldn't be surprised if it's the same cause again – Dave beating someone up because they dared to call her a girl. You sigh as you put on your baseball cap and sunglasses. She's almost eight years old, she should've grown out of this phase a long time ago.

You think maybe it's time to have a chat with her.

Her name's sorta stuck as Dave. Everyone assumes it's a nickname, but she pitches a fit whenever a teacher addresses her as Evelyn. You can't blame her, you always tell people to call you Bro because you think Ambrose is a stupid name. You look down at her sulking in the principal's office chairs before signing her out for the day and making an arrangement to have a chat with some of the teachers next week before they allow her back into class.

You lead her to the car, shaking your head as she buckles in. Neither of you say anything, not until you get home and she tosses her backpack into her room. "You can't keep doing this, Dave. Your little phase is gonna end now. I'm not bailing you out or defending you when I talk to your principal, got it?"

She screws up her face into one you're all too familiar with. Dave's ready to throw a bitchfit, and she'll probably try to do some serious damage. Luckily, you're not one of the relatively defenseless kids she goes to school with. You have her arms behind her back and pinned down to the floor before she even has a chance to fight back. "Fuck you Ambrose! This isn't some dumb phase, it's real!"

"You're a girl, Evelyn. You can act like a tomboy if that's what you want, I don't care, but stop tryin' to get people to act like you're not a girl."

Wrong thing to say. Maybe you've humored her tomboyishness a little too long, because she starts screaming and kicking, aiming right for your crotch. You know you don't really have the money for it, but you might wind up busting your ass a bit harder so you can take her to a shrink. Obviously, you fucked up somewhere along the line if she's honestly convinced she's a dude.

You hold her down until she wears herself out, tears running down her face but refusing to let out so much as a sniffle. "Room. Now. You've got homework you need to do, and if I catch you playing games or on the computer without permission, they get locked up in my room." She knows you'll do it, too. You've never backed out on threats of punishment yet.

"Fuck you, Ambrose..." her voice is wavering, and you pull her up to look her in the eye, no shades between the two of you.

"I don't mind callin' you Dave, kiddo. But you keep calling me Ambrose and I'll keep calling you Evelyn. And secondly, you keep this attitude up and I will not hesitate to beat your ass black and blue."

She nods, not brave enough to look away from you until you take the initiative to push your sunglasses back up on your nose. "I gotta go get ready for work. Stay out of my way and behave, got it?"

She just nods again, then goes into her room. She's pissed at you, and you know it. She always give some sort of verbal response when you tell her to do something, even if it's a 'yeah whatever.' You grumble and head off to try and get a shower in before a long day of work.

~~~~~

Even though your day job is simple enough, it's exhausting work moving other people's furniture for them. But the tips are pretty decent, and you have a night gig at the local titty bar to give them some custom music. It gives you a chance to relax and zone out, for the most part. While getting a free show, of course.

One of the dancers, a girl that goes by Delilah on the stage, comes up to you. She's already off the clock, but she likes talking to you. So long as you keep stuff running according to the scripts, the manager doesn't care if you have someone up there with you or not.

"What's up, Strider? You look tense. More than usual, anyways."

You shrug. She knows about Dave – you've told her about your little sis plenty of times before, but never too much at once. Tonight, though, you let everything out. Down to feeling like a shitty guardian for raising a girl to think she was a boy.

She kicks you, and those platform heels hurt like a bitch. "The hell was that for, Lilah?"

"I've told you about my sister, right?" Katie, you remember. The girl was coming into town for a visit, and you've had thoughts of hitting her up for a bit of fun.

"Yeah, what about her?"

Lilah rolls her eyes and hits you on the shoulder. "She was born a he."

Welp. There goes your boner, and all thought of asking for a one-night stand. You like to think of yourself as tolerant, but that sort of information is not good on your libido. "Okay. So?"

"I think your little brother is a trans boy. You shouldn't beat yourself up about it... and for God's sake, don't try to change what he's trying to be." Trans boy? What the fuck. You've never heard of that sorta thing, and the whole idea of letting Dave try and be a boy is a bit repulsive.

"She's just a kid. She doesn't know what she's getting into. She doesn't know what she wants."

Lilah gives you another kick with those goddamn heels. "Kids are pretty honest. How long has he been saying he's a boy?" Her insistence on calling Dave a he is weirding you out.

"Since she was four." Lilah kicks you again. You're probably gonna have one hell of a bruise on the back of your leg at this rate. "Quit that or I'll convince Ricky to have your next shift set entirely to the B-52s." You know how much she hates the band.

"Quit calling him a girl. The worst thing you can do is try to force him into a role he doesn't want. Think about when he hits puberty. That's coming up pretty soon for him, yeah? Think about how bad you'd feel if you had to go through the changes of a girl's body at that age." She looks pretty serious. And honestly, once she's said it, the thought leaves you with a faint feeling of unease.

"You're not the one raising her. I am." You hate having to resort to the defense of 'you're not the kid's parent, stay out of it,' but you don't want to have to keep defending your choices.

Lilah looks at you, and for the first time since talking to her you think you've really said the wrong thing and upset her. "You're right. I just don't want to see another trans kid get so depressed they attempt suicide because the most important person in the world to them won't listen to what they're trying to say."

You miss the cue to bring out the next girl and start up the next song. You recover pretty quick, making the announcement before going back to look at Lilah in the eye. "… Your sis do that?" She nods, and you have to fight to keep your cool.

Like hell you're gonna make a decision that could lead to Dave attempting suicide. "Sh... He's pissed at me right now." You're quick to correct yourself. It's gonna take a fair bit of getting used to, you think.

Lilah pulls a piece of paper out of her purse, and scribbles a name down on it, putting it in your front pocket and patting it with a wink. "Go here. It's a support group for the local GLBT community. Tell them what's going on, they can help you find the names of trans-friendly shrinks and doctors, and after you talk it out with your brother, maybe you can start taking him with you. I think they've got a youth group."

"Thanks, Lilah."

~~~~~

You get home way too damn late, and Dave's fallen asleep on the couch. You sit next to her (him, you mentally correct yourself), and shake him awake. "Hey little bro. Let's get you in your bed."

He wipes his eyes, crusted over with dried tears. You ruffle his hair, trying to remember not to slip up somewhere in your sleep deprivation. "Thought you said I wasn't your bro."

You feel a sinking weight in your gut. "Yeah, well, I got my ass handed to me by a stripper who says otherwise." You pull him over your shoulder, and Dave's too tired to fight back as you drag him to his room.

"Dude, you never get your ass handed to you by nobody."

"Women have a tendency to do that. You'll learn it soon enough." You toss him down on his bed, and he kicks at you. "Go back to sleep. I gotta get some myself. Tomorrow, we'll have a talk about this, 'kay?"

"Why can't we talk now?"

You raise an eyebrow, but sit down on the edge of his bed. "If you really want. I can't be coherent all the time, bro. I really do need my sleep."

"Why do I gotta be a girl? It don't feel right, Bro." He honestly looks confused. Upset. Hell, even frustrated. You try to step back a moment and think about how he's gotta feel. You'd probably be feeling the same way.

"That's life's ultimate irony, little bro."

He raises an eyebrow, mimicking your own expression as well as he can without any shades on. "Yeah, well, it's not very cool."

You wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him in for a brotherly hug. "The ultimate irony never is, kiddo. But I'm not gonna make you deal with it alone."

[AbOmInAblEcArApAcE]

So, uh, over in the Genderfuckery thread, I was inspired to write Bro trying to raise a FTM!Dave. And having some trouble coping with a lot of the different aspects of raising a transgendered kid. Problem is, I think only the first chapter (maybe second, if I'm lucky) will be suitable for the forums, because of the rules regarding kids and puberty.

I already posted it in the Genderfuckery thread, but I think it bears a bit of crossposting here. I'll be announcing updates on AO3 here, too, don't worry.

Big Brother

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hide spoiler

Your name is Ambrose 'Bro' Strider, and your little sister Evelyn is going through a phase. At the age of four, most kids start playing pretend and expect everyone else to play along with them. So you humor her. Today, she's saying that she's now a little boy and that her name is Dave. Not David, just Dave. "All right, little si... little bro." She beams up at you, and you figure that this is probably one of the easier, less awkward pretend phases she could've chosen. One kid at her daycare insisted on being Superman, down to refusing to dress in anything but the stupid Halloween costume he'd gotten last year.

You take your little sis to the local Goodwill to get some boy's clothes. Raising a kid is expensive, and most of your extra cash is eaten up in the upkeep of your DJ equipment. So buying a new set of non-frilly clothes would take a good chunk of change that you could be putting towards something else.

'Dave', as she's calling herself for now, doesn't seem to mind. She goes straight for the dirtiest, most torn up shirts and pants. Especially pants. Not surprising, seeing as she's wearing a frilly little set of jeans right now. You insist on at least getting a few outfits that aren't torn up to hell, and she helps pick them out.

She goes to school the next day and winds up in a fight. She says the other boys wouldn't play with her. The day after that, she asks you to teach her how to fight. You say sure, because martial arts is a damn useful skill for anyone to know, guy or girl, and she might need it for self-defense at some point.

You start teaching her the basics, how she shouldn't be using what she learns to go around and beat other kids up just because she knows how. She asks if she can learn sword fighting if she's good with that. You're not sure if she's going to keep up her little obsession that long, but you say yes anyway. It's good discipline and self-control for her if she keeps up with it.

~~~~~

You've just been woken up by the school. Dave's gotten into a fight again. Third time this month, and they're threatening suspension. You grumble that you'll be there as soon as you get dressed. You wouldn't be surprised if it's the same cause again – Dave beating someone up because they dared to call her a girl. You sigh as you put on your baseball cap and sunglasses. She's almost eight years old, she should've grown out of this phase a long time ago.

You think maybe it's time to have a chat with her.

Her name's sorta stuck as Dave. Everyone assumes it's a nickname, but she pitches a fit whenever a teacher addresses her as Evelyn. You can't blame her, you always tell people to call you Bro because you think Ambrose is a stupid name. You look down at her sulking in the principal's office chairs before signing her out for the day and making an arrangement to have a chat with some of the teachers next week before they allow her back into class.

You lead her to the car, shaking your head as she buckles in. Neither of you say anything, not until you get home and she tosses her backpack into her room. "You can't keep doing this, Dave. Your little phase is gonna end now. I'm not bailing you out or defending you when I talk to your principal, got it?"

She screws up her face into one you're all too familiar with. Dave's ready to throw a bitchfit, and she'll probably try to do some serious damage. Luckily, you're not one of the relatively defenseless kids she goes to school with. You have her arms behind her back and pinned down to the floor before she even has a chance to fight back. "Fuck you Ambrose! This isn't some dumb phase, it's real!"

"You're a girl, Evelyn. You can act like a tomboy if that's what you want, I don't care, but stop tryin' to get people to act like you're not a girl."

Wrong thing to say. Maybe you've humored her tomboyishness a little too long, because she starts screaming and kicking, aiming right for your crotch. You know you don't really have the money for it, but you might wind up busting your ass a bit harder so you can take her to a shrink. Obviously, you fucked up somewhere along the line if she's honestly convinced she's a dude.

You hold her down until she wears herself out, tears running down her face but refusing to let out so much as a sniffle. "Room. Now. You've got homework you need to do, and if I catch you playing games or on the computer without permission, they get locked up in my room." She knows you'll do it, too. You've never backed out on threats of punishment yet.

"Fuck you, Ambrose..." her voice is wavering, and you pull her up to look her in the eye, no shades between the two of you.

"I don't mind callin' you Dave, kiddo. But you keep calling me Ambrose and I'll keep calling you Evelyn. And secondly, you keep this attitude up and I will not hesitate to beat your ass black and blue."

She nods, not brave enough to look away from you until you take the initiative to push your sunglasses back up on your nose. "I gotta go get ready for work. Stay out of my way and behave, got it?"

She just nods again, then goes into her room. She's pissed at you, and you know it. She always give some sort of verbal response when you tell her to do something, even if it's a 'yeah whatever.' You grumble and head off to try and get a shower in before a long day of work.

~~~~~

Even though your day job is simple enough, it's exhausting work moving other people's furniture for them. But the tips are pretty decent, and you have a night gig at the local titty bar to give them some custom music. It gives you a chance to relax and zone out, for the most part. While getting a free show, of course.

One of the dancers, a girl that goes by Delilah on the stage, comes up to you. She's already off the clock, but she likes talking to you. So long as you keep stuff running according to the scripts, the manager doesn't care if you have someone up there with you or not.

"What's up, Strider? You look tense. More than usual, anyways."

You shrug. She knows about Dave – you've told her about your little sis plenty of times before, but never too much at once. Tonight, though, you let everything out. Down to feeling like a shitty guardian for raising a girl to think she was a boy.

She kicks you, and those platform heels hurt like a bitch. "The hell was that for, Lilah?"

"I've told you about my sister, right?" Katie, you remember. The girl was coming into town for a visit, and you've had thoughts of hitting her up for a bit of fun.

"Yeah, what about her?"

Lilah rolls her eyes and hits you on the shoulder. "She was born a he."

Welp. There goes your boner, and all thought of asking for a one-night stand. You like to think of yourself as tolerant, but that sort of information is not good on your libido. "Okay. So?"

"I think your little brother is a trans boy. You shouldn't beat yourself up about it... and for God's sake, don't try to change what he's trying to be." Trans boy? What the fuck. You've never heard of that sorta thing, and the whole idea of letting Dave try and be a boy is a bit repulsive.

"She's just a kid. She doesn't know what she's getting into. She doesn't know what she wants."

Lilah gives you another kick with those goddamn heels. "Kids are pretty honest. How long has he been saying he's a boy?" Her insistence on calling Dave a he is weirding you out.

"Since she was four." Lilah kicks you again. You're probably gonna have one hell of a bruise on the back of your leg at this rate. "Quit that or I'll convince Ricky to have your next shift set entirely to the B-52s." You know how much she hates the band.

"Quit calling him a girl. The worst thing you can do is try to force him into a role he doesn't want. Think about when he hits puberty. That's coming up pretty soon for him, yeah? Think about how bad you'd feel if you had to go through the changes of a girl's body at that age." She looks pretty serious. And honestly, once she's said it, the thought leaves you with a faint feeling of unease.

"You're not the one raising her. I am." You hate having to resort to the defense of 'you're not the kid's parent, stay out of it,' but you don't want to have to keep defending your choices.

Lilah looks at you, and for the first time since talking to her you think you've really said the wrong thing and upset her. "You're right. I just don't want to see another trans kid get so depressed they attempt suicide because the most important person in the world to them won't listen to what they're trying to say."

You miss the cue to bring out the next girl and start up the next song. You recover pretty quick, making the announcement before going back to look at Lilah in the eye. "… Your sis do that?" She nods, and you have to fight to keep your cool.

Like hell you're gonna make a decision that could lead to Dave attempting suicide. "Sh... He's pissed at me right now." You're quick to correct yourself. It's gonna take a fair bit of getting used to, you think.

Lilah pulls a piece of paper out of her purse, and scribbles a name down on it, putting it in your front pocket and patting it with a wink. "Go here. It's a support group for the local GLBT community. Tell them what's going on, they can help you find the names of trans-friendly shrinks and doctors, and after you talk it out with your brother, maybe you can start taking him with you. I think they've got a youth group."

"Thanks, Lilah."

~~~~~

You get home way too damn late, and Dave's fallen asleep on the couch. You sit next to her (him, you mentally correct yourself), and shake him awake. "Hey little bro. Let's get you in your bed."

He wipes his eyes, crusted over with dried tears. You ruffle his hair, trying to remember not to slip up somewhere in your sleep deprivation. "Thought you said I wasn't your bro."

You feel a sinking weight in your gut. "Yeah, well, I got my ass handed to me by a stripper who says otherwise." You pull him over your shoulder, and Dave's too tired to fight back as you drag him to his room.

"Dude, you never get your ass handed to you by nobody."

"Women have a tendency to do that. You'll learn it soon enough." You toss him down on his bed, and he kicks at you. "Go back to sleep. I gotta get some myself. Tomorrow, we'll have a talk about this, 'kay?"

"Why can't we talk now?"

You raise an eyebrow, but sit down on the edge of his bed. "If you really want. I can't be coherent all the time, bro. I really do need my sleep."

"Why do I gotta be a girl? It don't feel right, Bro." He honestly looks confused. Upset. Hell, even frustrated. You try to step back a moment and think about how he's gotta feel. You'd probably be feeling the same way.

"That's life's ultimate irony, little bro."

He raises an eyebrow, mimicking your own expression as well as he can without any shades on. "Yeah, well, it's not very cool."

You wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him in for a brotherly hug. "The ultimate irony never is, kiddo. But I'm not gonna make you deal with it alone."

I... I love you. You win all the internetz I own. Which is 2. So here you go. *hands you two internetz*

[pimudragonfeline]

I need to catch up...
First fic on A03 and it's a short one.
Benevolent

[Rimbaum]

So, uh, over in the Genderfuckery thread, I was inspired to write Bro trying to raise a FTM!Dave. And having some trouble coping with a lot of the different aspects of raising a transgendered kid. Problem is, I think only the first chapter (maybe second, if I'm lucky) will be suitable for the forums, because of the rules regarding kids and puberty.

I already posted it in the Genderfuckery thread, but I think it bears a bit of crossposting here. I'll be announcing updates on AO3 here, too, don't worry.

Big Brother

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Your name is Ambrose 'Bro' Strider, and your little sister Evelyn is going through a phase. At the age of four, most kids start playing pretend and expect everyone else to play along with them. So you humor her. Today, she's saying that she's now a little boy and that her name is Dave. Not David, just Dave. "All right, little si... little bro." She beams up at you, and you figure that this is probably one of the easier, less awkward pretend phases she could've chosen. One kid at her daycare insisted on being Superman, down to refusing to dress in anything but the stupid Halloween costume he'd gotten last year.

You take your little sis to the local Goodwill to get some boy's clothes. Raising a kid is expensive, and most of your extra cash is eaten up in the upkeep of your DJ equipment. So buying a new set of non-frilly clothes would take a good chunk of change that you could be putting towards something else.

'Dave', as she's calling herself for now, doesn't seem to mind. She goes straight for the dirtiest, most torn up shirts and pants. Especially pants. Not surprising, seeing as she's wearing a frilly little set of jeans right now. You insist on at least getting a few outfits that aren't torn up to hell, and she helps pick them out.

She goes to school the next day and winds up in a fight. She says the other boys wouldn't play with her. The day after that, she asks you to teach her how to fight. You say sure, because martial arts is a damn useful skill for anyone to know, guy or girl, and she might need it for self-defense at some point.

You start teaching her the basics, how she shouldn't be using what she learns to go around and beat other kids up just because she knows how. She asks if she can learn sword fighting if she's good with that. You're not sure if she's going to keep up her little obsession that long, but you say yes anyway. It's good discipline and self-control for her if she keeps up with it.

~~~~~

You've just been woken up by the school. Dave's gotten into a fight again. Third time this month, and they're threatening suspension. You grumble that you'll be there as soon as you get dressed. You wouldn't be surprised if it's the same cause again – Dave beating someone up because they dared to call her a girl. You sigh as you put on your baseball cap and sunglasses. She's almost eight years old, she should've grown out of this phase a long time ago.

You think maybe it's time to have a chat with her.

Her name's sorta stuck as Dave. Everyone assumes it's a nickname, but she pitches a fit whenever a teacher addresses her as Evelyn. You can't blame her, you always tell people to call you Bro because you think Ambrose is a stupid name. You look down at her sulking in the principal's office chairs before signing her out for the day and making an arrangement to have a chat with some of the teachers next week before they allow her back into class.

You lead her to the car, shaking your head as she buckles in. Neither of you say anything, not until you get home and she tosses her backpack into her room. "You can't keep doing this, Dave. Your little phase is gonna end now. I'm not bailing you out or defending you when I talk to your principal, got it?"

She screws up her face into one you're all too familiar with. Dave's ready to throw a bitchfit, and she'll probably try to do some serious damage. Luckily, you're not one of the relatively defenseless kids she goes to school with. You have her arms behind her back and pinned down to the floor before she even has a chance to fight back. "Fuck you Ambrose! This isn't some dumb phase, it's real!"

"You're a girl, Evelyn. You can act like a tomboy if that's what you want, I don't care, but stop tryin' to get people to act like you're not a girl."

Wrong thing to say. Maybe you've humored her tomboyishness a little too long, because she starts screaming and kicking, aiming right for your crotch. You know you don't really have the money for it, but you might wind up busting your ass a bit harder so you can take her to a shrink. Obviously, you fucked up somewhere along the line if she's honestly convinced she's a dude.

You hold her down until she wears herself out, tears running down her face but refusing to let out so much as a sniffle. "Room. Now. You've got homework you need to do, and if I catch you playing games or on the computer without permission, they get locked up in my room." She knows you'll do it, too. You've never backed out on threats of punishment yet.

"Fuck you, Ambrose..." her voice is wavering, and you pull her up to look her in the eye, no shades between the two of you.

"I don't mind callin' you Dave, kiddo. But you keep calling me Ambrose and I'll keep calling you Evelyn. And secondly, you keep this attitude up and I will not hesitate to beat your ass black and blue."

She nods, not brave enough to look away from you until you take the initiative to push your sunglasses back up on your nose. "I gotta go get ready for work. Stay out of my way and behave, got it?"

She just nods again, then goes into her room. She's pissed at you, and you know it. She always give some sort of verbal response when you tell her to do something, even if it's a 'yeah whatever.' You grumble and head off to try and get a shower in before a long day of work.

~~~~~

Even though your day job is simple enough, it's exhausting work moving other people's furniture for them. But the tips are pretty decent, and you have a night gig at the local titty bar to give them some custom music. It gives you a chance to relax and zone out, for the most part. While getting a free show, of course.

One of the dancers, a girl that goes by Delilah on the stage, comes up to you. She's already off the clock, but she likes talking to you. So long as you keep stuff running according to the scripts, the manager doesn't care if you have someone up there with you or not.

"What's up, Strider? You look tense. More than usual, anyways."

You shrug. She knows about Dave – you've told her about your little sis plenty of times before, but never too much at once. Tonight, though, you let everything out. Down to feeling like a shitty guardian for raising a girl to think she was a boy.

She kicks you, and those platform heels hurt like a bitch. "The hell was that for, Lilah?"

"I've told you about my sister, right?" Katie, you remember. The girl was coming into town for a visit, and you've had thoughts of hitting her up for a bit of fun.

"Yeah, what about her?"

Lilah rolls her eyes and hits you on the shoulder. "She was born a he."

Welp. There goes your boner, and all thought of asking for a one-night stand. You like to think of yourself as tolerant, but that sort of information is not good on your libido. "Okay. So?"

"I think your little brother is a trans boy. You shouldn't beat yourself up about it... and for God's sake, don't try to change what he's trying to be." Trans boy? What the fuck. You've never heard of that sorta thing, and the whole idea of letting Dave try and be a boy is a bit repulsive.

"She's just a kid. She doesn't know what she's getting into. She doesn't know what she wants."

Lilah gives you another kick with those goddamn heels. "Kids are pretty honest. How long has he been saying he's a boy?" Her insistence on calling Dave a he is weirding you out.

"Since she was four." Lilah kicks you again. You're probably gonna have one hell of a bruise on the back of your leg at this rate. "Quit that or I'll convince Ricky to have your next shift set entirely to the B-52s." You know how much she hates the band.

"Quit calling him a girl. The worst thing you can do is try to force him into a role he doesn't want. Think about when he hits puberty. That's coming up pretty soon for him, yeah? Think about how bad you'd feel if you had to go through the changes of a girl's body at that age." She looks pretty serious. And honestly, once she's said it, the thought leaves you with a faint feeling of unease.

"You're not the one raising her. I am." You hate having to resort to the defense of 'you're not the kid's parent, stay out of it,' but you don't want to have to keep defending your choices.

Lilah looks at you, and for the first time since talking to her you think you've really said the wrong thing and upset her. "You're right. I just don't want to see another trans kid get so depressed they attempt suicide because the most important person in the world to them won't listen to what they're trying to say."

You miss the cue to bring out the next girl and start up the next song. You recover pretty quick, making the announcement before going back to look at Lilah in the eye. "… Your sis do that?" She nods, and you have to fight to keep your cool.

Like hell you're gonna make a decision that could lead to Dave attempting suicide. "Sh... He's pissed at me right now." You're quick to correct yourself. It's gonna take a fair bit of getting used to, you think.

Lilah pulls a piece of paper out of her purse, and scribbles a name down on it, putting it in your front pocket and patting it with a wink. "Go here. It's a support group for the local GLBT community. Tell them what's going on, they can help you find the names of trans-friendly shrinks and doctors, and after you talk it out with your brother, maybe you can start taking him with you. I think they've got a youth group."

"Thanks, Lilah."

~~~~~

You get home way too damn late, and Dave's fallen asleep on the couch. You sit next to her (him, you mentally correct yourself), and shake him awake. "Hey little bro. Let's get you in your bed."

He wipes his eyes, crusted over with dried tears. You ruffle his hair, trying to remember not to slip up somewhere in your sleep deprivation. "Thought you said I wasn't your bro."

You feel a sinking weight in your gut. "Yeah, well, I got my ass handed to me by a stripper who says otherwise." You pull him over your shoulder, and Dave's too tired to fight back as you drag him to his room.

"Dude, you never get your ass handed to you by nobody."

"Women have a tendency to do that. You'll learn it soon enough." You toss him down on his bed, and he kicks at you. "Go back to sleep. I gotta get some myself. Tomorrow, we'll have a talk about this, 'kay?"

"Why can't we talk now?"

You raise an eyebrow, but sit down on the edge of his bed. "If you really want. I can't be coherent all the time, bro. I really do need my sleep."

"Why do I gotta be a girl? It don't feel right, Bro." He honestly looks confused. Upset. Hell, even frustrated. You try to step back a moment and think about how he's gotta feel. You'd probably be feeling the same way.

"That's life's ultimate irony, little bro."

He raises an eyebrow, mimicking your own expression as well as he can without any shades on. "Yeah, well, it's not very cool."

You wrap an arm around his shoulders and pull him in for a brotherly hug. "The ultimate irony never is, kiddo. But I'm not gonna make you deal with it alone."

I... I love you. You win all the internetz I own. Which is 2. So here you go. *hands you two internetz*

YAY! I now have two internetz!

[AbOmInAblEcArApAcE]

ACTUALLY THREE INCLUDING THE ONE YOUR ON

btw, can we have OC ramblings on here? Just wondering.

[Rimbaum]

ACTUALLY THREE INCLUDING THE ONE YOUR ON

btw, can we have OC ramblings on here? Just wondering.

like fantrolls or alternate Sburb/Sgrub sessions? No problem! Post away

[DJ-P0N3]

I don't think fanfictions ever disallowed OCs, they just never were as popular as the other ones!

[Naevius]

This is a little idea that got into my head the minute I saw this depiction of the Sufferer. And, of course, I can't resist making references to WV?: Survey Casualties. It'll be short, but I hope I do the idea in my head justice.

Blood of the Fallen

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It's quiet now.

The tumult and din of battle has fallen to the cold silence of the graveyard. Everyone is dead.

Everyone except him.

The Sufferer kneels amidst the cold carnage and death. Bodies litter the field of battle, trolls from many different points of the hemospectrum lying cold, dead, bleeding in the dirt, fodder for carrion. Moirails, matesprits, friends and enemies all with the same fate in the end: the unforgiving embrace of death, the endless sleep. The warm, sticky mess soaks into boots and pants where he kneels, the BLOOD OF THE FALLEN staining the GARB OF THE SUFFERER. He supposes it could be poetic?

No, instead he thinks it is just sad.

The chill night seems to penetrate his very core. His mouth is dry and his every muscle tired from the fatigue of battle. His throat feels constricted, almost like choking, with grief. He doesn't cry, though. He can't cry, because he doesn't have enough tears to shed for all of them.

He hears them before he sees them coming, with the familiar sound of jackboot clomping down onto dirt--as well as the occasional squelch when one stepped in blood that covered the battlefield. He knows his time is up. He isn't ready, though. This moment was talked about, planned for, discussed when the potent words "treason" and "rebellion" were traded amongst the inner circle. He knew this was a possibility from the start, but it was always carried a hypothetical nature, like talking about a particularly bad daymare. The idea that it was a real possibility, that the Sufferer would have to watch everyone he cared about die around him, never hit him until it happened.

He stands. He stands and turns to face them because dignity in defeat was the last inch of him he would never give in. He says nothing when they approach--not like before, not like the beginning. The Sufferer started this by shaking his fist and roaring his fury at God and troll alike, and others followed him because they shared that anger. They followed because they were mad as hell and wouldn't take it anymore.

Now the fury is gone. The Sufferer's face is a grim mask, all hard lines from battle and hunger and worry and fear and running and killing. The leader draws his weapon, a long sword that curved menacingly at the end. He raises it, and the Sufferer knows this is the end.

He spits in the man's eye and gives the most vulgar expression with his hands he knows. Just because it was the end didn't mean he had to be cowed. Beaten, but not broken. The sword comes down with swift finality.

Thus ends the tale of the Sufferer.

[BarnabyJones]

crossposting from the Genchat thread after some craziness

you get to figure out who's talking here

Show Pesterlog

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-- meanDiagnostician [MD] began pestering elevenLives [EL] at 11:13 --

MD: So I figured it out
EL: figured out what.
M What you were lying about
EL: oh, you're a clever one, aren't you.
M Well, that's what everyone tells me
M Anyways, you were lying about not knowing about Sdrug or whatever it was called before
EL: sburb.
EL: and yes, that was one of the things i lied about.
EL: i knew what is was but i had no idea it was this incredible.
EL: the technology and the paradoxes and the wibbly wobbly stuff.
EL: it's just so COOL.
M Okay, I get it, you're a space alien or something
M What I want to know is why you lied
EL: because i didn't trust any of you.
EL: i pick the humans i tell secrets to very carefully.
EL: and well, i didn't get to pick any of you.
EL: i have very high standards, you see.
M Trust? Look, everybody lies
M It's a universal constant
EL: maybe.
EL: but just because someone lies doesn't mean they're untrustworthy!
EL: does this mean you don't trust me?
M Of course not
M You claim to be from another planet in the future
M Or the past
M I don't really give a crap which it is, time travel is stupid
M My point is you're clearly a nutjob
M Maybe that's what you should be lying about
EL: hey!
EL: firstly time travel is neat.
EL: second, has anyone ever told you that you're rather cynical.
EL: even for a human, i mean.
EL: humans tend to be pretty cynical.
EL: it's almost endearing.
M I like to think I go beyond cynical
M Someone should make a new word to describe the level of cynical I am at this point
EL: conskeptithropic.
M That works
M We're getting off topic though
M Why should I trust you
EL: because you need me!
M I don't need anyone
EL: au contraire! i have quickly ascertained our roles in this game.
EL: and, using my unique experience with time travel,
M Ugh
EL: i have gathered quite a bit of knowledge about this game!
EL: well, game isn't quite what i'd use to describe it, but i already invented a word today.
M Are you going to get to the point or am I going to die first
EL: grumpy grumpy!
EL: anyways, what i'm trying to say is that the point of sburb is to create a new universe from scratch!
EL: and that's impossible to do alone!
M What

Dr House and the Doctor? Though the Doctor seems a bit... Jade-y?

[ch00_bakka]

Holy crap! It is House and The Doctor! And it's obviously the most Jade-ey doctor... Tom Baker? Maybe Matt Smith. Anyway... A SBURB game with House and The Doctor as players would be awesome... And to fill out the four-doc squad, let's put in Dr McNinja and Doctor Octopus! That would be the most epic Sburb game ever. Especially if it was a six-person game, with Doctor Strange (wizard-superhero) and Doctor Jones (Indy).

[NotAPumpkin]

crossposting from the Genchat thread after some craziness

you get to figure out who's talking here

Show Pesterlog

show spoiler

hide spoiler

-- meanDiagnostician [MD] began pestering elevenLives [EL] at 11:13 --

MD: So I figured it out
EL: figured out what.
M What you were lying about
EL: oh, you're a clever one, aren't you.
M Well, that's what everyone tells me
M Anyways, you were lying about not knowing about Sdrug or whatever it was called before
EL: sburb.
EL: and yes, that was one of the things i lied about.
EL: i knew what is was but i had no idea it was this incredible.
EL: the technology and the paradoxes and the wibbly wobbly stuff.
EL: it's just so COOL.
M Okay, I get it, you're a space alien or something
M What I want to know is why you lied
EL: because i didn't trust any of you.
EL: i pick the humans i tell secrets to very carefully.
EL: and well, i didn't get to pick any of you.
EL: i have very high standards, you see.
M Trust? Look, everybody lies
M It's a universal constant
EL: maybe.
EL: but just because someone lies doesn't mean they're untrustworthy!
EL: does this mean you don't trust me?
M Of course not
M You claim to be from another planet in the future
M Or the past
M I don't really give a crap which it is, time travel is stupid
M My point is you're clearly a nutjob
M Maybe that's what you should be lying about
EL: hey!
EL: firstly time travel is neat.
EL: second, has anyone ever told you that you're rather cynical.
EL: even for a human, i mean.
EL: humans tend to be pretty cynical.
EL: it's almost endearing.
M I like to think I go beyond cynical
M Someone should make a new word to describe the level of cynical I am at this point
EL: conskeptithropic.
M That works
M We're getting off topic though
M Why should I trust you
EL: because you need me!
M I don't need anyone
EL: au contraire! i have quickly ascertained our roles in this game.
EL: and, using my unique experience with time travel,
M Ugh
EL: i have gathered quite a bit of knowledge about this game!
EL: well, game isn't quite what i'd use to describe it, but i already invented a word today.
M Are you going to get to the point or am I going to die first
EL: grumpy grumpy!
EL: anyways, what i'm trying to say is that the point of sburb is to create a new universe from scratch!
EL: and that's impossible to do alone!
M What

Dr House and the Doctor? Though the Doctor seems a bit... Jade-y?

You are correct! I am qualified to tell you this because I was there when Qiam first wrote it for the genchat thread :P
Don't remember which Doctor though, sorry.

Anyways, everything on this thread is awesome and you should all feel proud of yourselves. Smiles all around!

[anonymousComrade]

Hey fanfic thread, it's been a while!

I wrote a couple things; the last bit of Hunters, and a brand spankin' new chapter of Re: Champion.

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there was another thing too but I can't link to it here because it was written for a certain request meme, and that's all I'm sayin'

So without further ado:

Hunters - Part 5: Extraction

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>Aitris: Pursue.

Well yeah, letting this seafaring asshole get away with the prototype isn't an option. You give chase, leaving the task of defeating the guards to Byakka.

>Byakka: Grief!

Three on one? This is gonna be interesting. They think they have the upper hand, of course. Three burly guards versus you, with your small frame and slight build? No contest. Or so they think. The first thing you ever learned about hand-to-hand combat was how to exploit a fight against multiple opponents larger than yourself to your advantage. The utilization of momentum, the flow of direction, how to direct that motion, it's all the key to your fighting style. The harder these goons throw themselves at you, the more they'll practically beat themselves up.

It's kind of unfair, really, just how badly these guys are going to lose this fight.

The first one comes at you hard, swinging his scimitar with all the fury he can muster. His charging attack is all too easy to sidestep, his arm barely a challenge to catch, and all that forward momentum is effortlessly redirected toward the floor for the easy KO. One down, two to go.

The other two approach you more carefully than the first, now that they're aware of what you're capable of. Not that it'll help them, you think, but they're welcome to try. The two of them try to coordinate their attacks, thinking a simultaneous assault will earn them victory. The left advances high; the right sweeps low. Neither attack finds its mark. You step back and dodge, then lash out with your claws, knocking the blade out of one of the thug's hands and scoring a trio of cuts down his arm. The uninjured goon follows up with a kick, but you catch his leg before it collides with your torso. He earns an elbow to the face and a broken leg for his troubles.

>Byakka: Now that the goons are dealt with, follow Aitris!

You turn toward the corridor Aitris ran down, only to find another group of Dualscar's thugs arriving on the scene. They unsheathe their swords and assume fighting stances.

Looks like your work isn't quite finished yet. Let's see what Aitris is up to.

>Aitris: Catch up already.

You're trying!

Your vision is still a little blurry from your face's introduction to Dualscar's fist, but you've followed him to the best of your ability to what appears to be some kind of storage facility. The crates and various pieces of hardware scattered about and hanging from the ceiling are what tips you off to this being a storage area. Nearly taking a laser blast to the chest is what clues you in to the fact that he might be hiding out here.

You retrieve THE INSPECTOR'S ASSOCIATE after taking cover. The mission briefing didn't specifically call for an assassination, but didn't expressly forbid it, either. If putting a round in this tool is what the mission calls for, then that's what you've gotta do.

"Give up, Guild puppet!" he taunts from across the room.

"I came for the prototype. I'm not leaving without it. Can't have you dashing rogue types blasting lasers at everyone, after all," you reply.

He laughs at that. "Ha ha ha ha! You think I want to mass-produce the Crosshairs? Not bloody likely! You think I can trust a bunch of low-blooded thugs to handle weapons capable of this much destruction? No, I've a far greater goal in mind."

You can hear the sound of his boots on metal but you don't dare try to visually confirm his position yet. "No, with this weapon, I'll be able to devastate the Marquise's fleets single-handedly. When I personally decimate ship after ship of hers, she'll have no choice but to hate me. It'll be a legendary rivalry for the ages."

He's doing all this to fill a quadrant?

You peer around the corner of the box you're using for cover and spy Dualscar perched atop the catwalk extending across the center of the room. You bring the rifle's scope to eye-level and try to steady your aim. The crystal tip of the prototype glows white-hot, and you hide just in time to avoid another barrage, or the brunt of it, at least.

The energy stream is close enough to you that it singes your left arm, blackening your sleeve and leaving a nasty burn, turning your arm an ugly shade of what should be yellow or brown but isn't. The hemoshift is wearing off, if this is any indication. Best to keep that arm concealed under what's left of your uniform then, even though contact with your fried skin hurts like a bitch.

Your mind snaps back to your current predicament as you realize that you have an opening, as the weapon has to spend some time recharging between volleys. You scope out Dualscar's position and see he's trying to flee across the catwalk to an upper room. You'll have none of that.

You try to line up his central mass with your crosshairs, but your left arm is screaming, shaking up your aim. You squeeze the trigger, hoping you'll at least hit him. A spray of purple leaves the exit wound in his shoulder as he drops the prototype, sending it falling off the catwalk. You sprint to retrieve it, just barely beating Dualscar as he jumps from above to claim it for himself. You smash his face with the butt of your sniper rifle, leaving him staggered before he has a chance to reclaim it. You put away THE INSPECTOR'S ASSOCIATE and allocate the prototype to your strife deck.

You have acquired AHAB'S CROSSHAIRS.

>Aitris: Escape.

Right before you leave this room, Dualscar has come to his senses enough to make some attempt at stopping you. He pulls out his pistol and tries to fire at you, but he's still reeling from seeing THE INSPECTOR'S ASSOCIATE up close and personal, so the rounds go wild, missing their mark.

You make your way through the facility, back the way you came. When you meet up with Byakka, she's surrounded by fallen guards. Various shades and hues of red, yellow and brown stain her claws. You shoot her an inquisitive glance and she responds, "they attacked me. They were asking fur it. Wait, I mean for it, sorry."

The way her speech slips into cat puns when her adrenaline gets pumping would be hilarious if the current situation weren't so serious.

She inquires about your arm but you tell her it's okay. It hurts like a grubfucker but it's still functional, you'll dress it once the two of you are out of here. The two of you make your way to the elevator leading to the ground level and punch the button to start the ascent. Now there's nothing to do but wait. And think about how both of you are kind of sitting ducks right now. They could flood the elevator shaft right now and that would be the end of it.

Either they don't know you're on the way up, or they can't actually flood the elevator shaft, because your ride to the surface concludes without incident.

You're definitely sure it's the latter when you exit the elevator and there are guards posted in every doorway, armed with various melee weapons.

"Shit!" you exclaim.

"To the right!" Byakka shouts, and starts running for the stairway leading up to your entry point. You follow her, still holding the prototype. The guard awaiting the two of you that way is armed with some kind of club. You easily knock him out with the end of your weapon. Poor sap never stood a chance.

The two of you make your way up to the storage room where you broke in and wedge a busted chair under the doorknob to barricade the door. You think carefully about how you're going to make your escape. You decaptchalogue the network cable Byakka used to get you up here during the break-in and tie it to the workbench bolted to the floor. You're about to tie the other end to your waist and rapell down the side of the building to ground level when oh shit they broke down the door quick there's no time

>Aitris and Byakka: Escape your current predicament in a badass manner.

You throw your arms up to protect your head and sprint toward the window. You think for an instant "this is gonna hurt" before your feet leave the ground and you break through the glass.

It's only a one-story fall. You can take it. You've trained for this just in case you'd have to do it someday. You hit the ground rolling, just like you practiced and oh fucking hell your grubfucking arm, sweet Jegus your arm

To say it hurts is a bit of an understatement. You think you might have broken it for a second until you remember Dualscar gave you a wicked burn.

Byakka lands next to you and immediately takes off for the section of fence the two of you came in through. "Hurry, Aitris, there's no time!" You can't argue with that. You locate your entry point and make your way to the other side, then you start booking it toward the evac point, which is where Byakka crashed your ship.

You stop to catch your breath once you think you've put enough distance between yourself and what has to be a group of very pissed off guards by now, but Byakka urges you to keep moving. You do so, albeit a bit begrudgingly.

You ask her, "we've got plenty of time until evac arrives. What's the hurry?" Except you are cut off at "What's" by a huge explosion behind you. You look back to see what's left of the shack in flames as debris rains down.

"Because I left a bomb in the elevator."

Oh yeah, you remember now. Byakka handling the explosives was never a thing that stopped happening.

>Aitris and Byakka: Make your way to evac.

You make your way back to the crashed ship without incident. You think you are being followed a few times, but nothing comes of it.

...Until you actually arrive at your destination. Dualscar's goons are all over the place, not to mention Dualscar himself. How the hell did he get here before you, anyway?

No time to think about that. The hail of gunfire headed in your direction says they've spotted you, too. Byakka takes a round to her shoulder and nearly drops her SMG before taking cover behind a rock formation. You take shelter behind a nearby tree and glance at your partner. Olive green seeps from the back of her shoulder, and it's in her dominant arm, too. This isn't good.

You retrieve the ALTERNIAN PEACEMAKER and lean out of cover. You line up the sights on the nearest opponent and squeeze the trigger, placing a round right between the enemy's eyes as they slump to the ground. You do the same to the guy behind him before returning to cover.

"Kill them! One thousand scarabs to the one who brings me the Crosshairs!" Dualscar's men advance on your position. Byakka tries to aim the PEZZ INDUSTRIES PRAY-N-SPRAY but the burst of fire goes wild due to having to rely on her other arm to keep the weapon steady. She puts away the SMG and brings out THE EQUALIZER but the high-caliber handgun's recoil throws her aim off before she can manage to take down more than one target.

You're going to have to provide enough firepower for the both of you. You equip AHAB'S CROSSHAIRS and lean out of cover again. You sight the nearest thug, pull the trigger, and nothing happens.

You realize you have no fucking idea how to use this weapon.

You pull your sidearm back out of your strife specibus. "Aitris, catch!" Byakka yells to you, and you turn just in time to catch THE EQUALIZER.

STRIFE SPECIBUS alteration detected. Adjusting...
Complete. You are now wielding 2XHANDGUNKIND.

>Aitris: Show these fools who they're dealing with.

THE EQUALIZER has more kick to it than you're used to, but it's nothing you can't handle. You make short work of the first one you sight, putting a pair of rounds in his chest. The one behind him opens fire and you dive behind Byakka's rock. He attempts to round it and attack you; you sweep his legs and pistol whip him for the KO.

You peer out of cover from one side while Byakka does the same from the other, trying to administer some suppressing fire with her SMG. You take down three, four more guards before the sound of someone landing next to you makes you turn to your left.

Dualscar punches you in the jaw, knocking you down and sending both pistols flying out of your hands. Apparently he climbed over the rock formation while his goons moved in.

>Byakka: Aggress.

You swing your SMG in an attempt to catch Dualscar with it, but he ducks the attack and follows up with a powerful right hook. You slump to the ground.

Byakka is KO'd. Changing active character...
Command?

>Aitris: Rearm yourself.

You try to pull a weapon, any weapon, from your strife deck. You get the prototype. It'll have to do.

You dodge Dualscar's advancing kick and roll out of the way in time to avoid taking a pistol round. You kick his pistol out of his hand and get up as he staggers. You still have no idea how to actually prime the prototype for firing, but it's still basically a rifle, and you know better than anyone just how well they can be turned into melee weapons. You swing the butt of the Crosshairs at him but miss. You follow through with an elbow that catches him in the nose, bloodying it and making him stumble backwards, then advance and plant the end of the gun in his abdomen, making him double over. You're about to bring it crashing into the back of his skull for the knockout blow when he responds with a fierce uppercut, knocking you down.

You hear the roar of the engine of an approaching Alternian dropship. Your ride is here. Unfortunately, you are in no shape to board.

Dualscar approaches your prone form. You are clutching the prototype in your good arm as the other screams in protest from the burn. Or, at least it was your good arm before Dualscar stomped on it to reclaim the prototype.

"I'll be taking back what's mine, now." He easily loosens the gun from your grip. You try to equip THE INSPECTOR'S ASSOCIATE but your arms are in no condition to operate such a weapon. You reach for the ALTERNIAN PEACEMAKER, the only one of the handguns you can find at the moment, and line Dualscar up in your sights, but the hollow *click* of an empty clip taunts you. And you are most definitely not in any shape to be fighting with him hand-to-hand.

A voice calls from the lowering dropship. "Come on, we've got to get out of here! Gunboats approaching from the north, if we don't get out of here now we're sitting waterfowl for their AA guns!"

"Why!" you shout at Dualscar, as he turns to leave. "Why let me escape? Is this some kind of sick game?"

"There's no fun in simply killing someone who could make for a worthy opponent, my dear. Perhaps next time we meet, we'll be more evenly matched. I look forward to it!" He disappears into the surrounding foliage.

Was... was this cretin blackhitting on you?!

You stumble to your feet, still dizzy from Dualscar's uppercut. Byakka is stirring, which is good because it means you won't have to carry her with your busted arms. Reluctantly, you board the dropship with your partner.

The guy helping you up, medicrusher from the look of it, takes one glance at the two of you once you're on board and decides he needs to tend your injuries. But all you can think of, as he prepares to set your broken arm, is that this is the first mission you've outright failed.

==>

Your wounds dressed, you report back to the Chief once you're back on board your home ship and in your respiteblock. He's not thrilled that you couldn't reclaim the prototype, but there are more pressing matters than one lost weapon that will see mass production eventually.

He tells you to rest up. Once the two of you are 100% again, he's got another mission for you.

(A perigree or so later.)

You've just returned from your latest visit to the infirmary; you've been cleared for action again. Your broken arm has fully healed, and all that remains of your burn is a scar that's barely even visible.

Right on cue, the fax machine cranks to life, printing out your latest assignment. The Chief didn't waste any time in getting this one out.

"Hey Byakka, new mission for us."

"Yeah? What's this one? Not going back to Alternia again, I hope!"

>Aitris: Read new mission briefing.

~ THE GUILD OF BOUNTY HUNTERMINATORS ~
~ MISSION BRIEFING ~

MISSION DETAILS
LOCATION: Warship XXVII-DCAB "Her Condescension's Wrath"

AGENTS DISPATCHED: Aitris Redglare, Byakka Lamiace

TARGET: one Karkinos Histrellin, aged nine (9) sweeps, lime green blood, wanted for crimes against the hemospectrum. Histrellin is to be considered armed and dangerous. Histrellin is to be brought in ALIVE. Agents dispatched will report to Warship XXVII-DCAB's Captain upon completion of the mission and turn custody of Histrellin over to the Captain.

CLIENT: Captain Vermille Suzach

~ END BRIEFING ~

* *
TO BE CONTINUED IN
RE: CHAMPION
* *

Notes:

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Aitris's identity: revealed! Hahaha like anyone hadn't guessed it already. Yeah it doesn't really fit with the eight-letter thing in canon, but "Neophyte" does, and that's totally a title and not a name so hey

Her name was going to be Tirsia, but that would have given away her identity instantly so I used an anagram instead

I've noticed I write my best fight scenes if I type them out as they happen in my head, without stopping to think about it. I hope I did this one justice.

Re: Champion - Chapter 6

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It's been over a perigree since Karkinos was awarded the Silver Skull for outliving most of his squad, the Crimson Cross for preservation of life, and the Cobalt Sickle for outstanding valor in battle. None of that really matters to him while he's being pinned down by enemy forces, though.

Fuckin' Oni nooksuckers, he thinks to himself as he takes cover behind the sandbags and reloads his rifle. The stream of machine gun fire crashes into the barrier, thunkthunkthunkthunkthunkthunk as dirt and other debris sprays over the sandbag wall.

Such is life in War Squad.

Karkinos checks his HUD's satellite feed. His position is occupied by two machine gun nests and Oni reinforcements are on the way. He carefully peeks around the corner of the defensive wall to check the enemy's activity, palming one of his grenade grubs before calculating distance and trajectory. The explosive is hurled over the barrier, landing with a wet thud next to the enemy gunner.

It never knew what hit it.

New orders on the HUD: flank the remaining gun nest, take out the gunner, then capture the weapons and use them to ward off the incoming reinforcements. Karkinos is to serve as the decoy while the rest of War Squad surrounds the nest.

He zigzags in and out of cover to keep the enemy's attention, firing back when he can. He's taking aim and thinking maybe he can end it here when three bullets slam into his chest. He stumbles backwards and another shot hits his shoulder before he regains the presence of mind to duck back into cover.

His armor kept the bullets from penetrating and doing and permanent damage, but it doesn't do anything for the pain, and taking a few rounds to the chest is no picnic, even for a troll's levels of pain tolerance. Karkinos has to stop for a while to catch his breath.

Wait, shit, there's no time.

("Shoulder that rifle and get your ass back in the game, soldier," he thinks to himself as he struggles to breathe and stop his vision from blurring with every beat of his cardiovascular pump.)

He aligns his crosshairs with the center mass of the Oni gunner and pulls the trigger. The round goes wild, completely missing the mark as another spray of bullets collides with his torso, staggering him again.

This time, he can't take it. Hot iron embedded in armor sears his flesh and the impact of taking that many rounds to the chest has left him unable to breathe. His vision blurs, then darkens as he falls to his knees.

The last thing he sees, before his sight goes dark and he falls into unconsciousness, is a spray of black leaving the head of his assailant.

("At least they made it," is the last thought on his mind before he slumps to the ground.)

----------

He awakens to the sound of continuous gunfire in front of him. He opens his eyes to find a fellow troll (another Threshecutioner, though not of War Squad, judging from the markings on his armor) manning an Oni machine gun.

A hand reaches out to him. He takes it as it helps him to his feet.

"Sir! Good to see you're lucid again!" A familiar voice, a familiar face.

"Chiron." It's good to meet up with someone who'd rather not see him dead for once, even if it is this sweaty tool. You're still sore and hurting but you've most likely got a job to do. "Gimme a sitrep, what's happening?"

"We lost contact with the home ship approximately thirty minutes ago, sir. A ludicrous amount of enemy reinforcements are en route. We've commandeered a few Oni machine guns for use in the defense but we need every soldier capable of firing a weapon. We don't know what command wants us to do because of the blackout, but when there are no standing orders--"

"Hold the line," Karkinos interrupts. "I know. I used to be a Squad Leader, remember?"

"Your fall was... unfortunate, sir. But I've seen you fight, and you earned those medals. I've no doubt in your abilities, sir."

"Stop calling me sir."

"Y-y-yes, sir! Sorry, sir!" Alcaeus snaps to a salute as Karkinos slaps his own forehead.

"Here, set this up next to mine." Alcaeus hands him what appears to be a folded Oni machine gun turret. He takes it and nearly drops it at first; he was not prepared for something Alcaeus had no trouble holding in one hand to weigh so goddamned much.

He carries (more like drags, actually) the weapon to his spot, glad he doesn't have to carry it further than a few standard units, and sets it up. Unfold the tripod mount's legs, point it west, lift the gun holy son of a grubfuck this thing is heavy, flip the tab, bolt it down, and we're good to go.

Alcaeus hands the last mounted gun to another Threshecutioner and is silent for a minute. Then...

"So, what brings you to the Threshecutioners, sir?"

"Excuse me, what?" Karkinos replies. He's not used to anyone asking about his background.

"You know, why are you here? My mor--- a good friend of mine is a greenblood, too, and she's wanting to get into the Infilterrorizers one day. Why not take spec ops training, sir?"

"Threshecutioners are the best of the best. The baddest of the bad. Nobody messes with a Threshecutioner. I guess... I guess that's it. I wanted to see if I could hack it." That's probably the most honest Karkinos has been with anyone, including himself, about his chosen field.

"Ah, the eternal struggle of troll versus self. An admirable goal, sir."

"So, what about you?" Karkinos asks. "You look more like a Ruffiannihilator than a Threshecutioner."

"Funny story," Alcaeus replies. "I originally signed up as an Archeradicator. I didn't last a day in training. Kept breaking the bows." He looses a hearty laugh as sweat visibly forms on his forehead.

"So they sent you somewhere where you could use that muscle productively?"

"Yes, to the Ruffiannihilators, at first. But they felt my natural strength was being wasted there, so I became a Threshecutioner, where I'd see more action on the front lines. But even here I kept snapping my rifle and shattering my sickle. So I fight barehanded most of the time."

"You don't have a gun?"

"I assure you, sir, I am quite well-armed." Alcaeus laughs again as he pulls the monstrosity of a weapon out of his strife specibus. It weighs more than most trolls. It's capable of spitting out more than 50 rounds per second.

(It's a goddamn minigun.)

Karkinos stares at it for a bit. "No fuckin' way. That's the main gun on most aircraft. There's no way you can wield that by yourself."

Alcaeus just laughs at him. "You'll see, sir. You'll see."

----------

The Oni come at the encampment in waves. At first, they are easy to pick off.

Then he hears the all-too-familiar whistle above him. He looks up and yes, enemy drop boxes are inbound, behind the defensive line. Alcaeus's voice is heard on the comm: "Famine Squad, repel the droppers! All others, hold the line!"

Karkinos can hear the drop boxes slam into the ground behind him. Alcaeus revs up his minigun and perforates the first box before its occupant can even exit.

How the hell Alcaeus manages to lift the damn thing, let alone handle the recoil, is beyond him.

He keeps the turret trained on the incoming ground forces advancing on his position. They are steadily gaining ground by sheer numbers; there are too many Oni to simply mow them down. But with communications with command being cut off, reinforcements or bombardments can't be called in.

It's up to them to handle the situation.

One. Two. Five. Ten. Twenty. Fifty. Karkinos keeps knocking down enemy soldiers but they just keep coming. How many of these grubfuckers did they send? Every minute that passes sees them push further and further ahead, the Threshecutioners losing more and more ground.

Finally, a crackle, and a voice on the comms channel. "This is Captain Suzach, status report!" The blackout is finally over.

Alcaeus responds, "Squad Leader Chiron here, requesting backup! There's too many of 'em, sir! We're losing ground, we're going to be overran!"

"I read you loud and clear. Sending support. Suzach out."

For fifteen harrowing minutes, things look increasingly dire. Bodies of Threshecutioners on the front lines fall to the ground intermittently as Oni soldiers approach their position. Supressing fire does nothing to stem the tide, the inexorable flood of enemy troops. Karkinos himself narrowly avoids death as a round narrowly misses his head and another grazes his helmet, leaving a ringing in his auditory channels.

At some point, the nightmare simply ends. It's a blur in his memory; the streak of Alternian aircraft, the dropping of payloads, the Oni scattered by falling bombs. A few manage to cross the perimeter. Karkinos cuts one down with his sickle after being tackled to the ground. Alcaeus snaps another's neck with his bare hands.

He doesn't remember much else about the battle, and his next clear memory is lying in the infirmary, being treated for three bruised ribs.

An hour later, he's back in his respiteblock, in his recuperacoon, asleep.

----------

Karkinos awakes to the sound of his husktop beeping.

-- centurionTechnician [CT] began trolling crimsonGeneral [CG] --

CT: []== E%ellent work today sir
CT: []== I am also most pleased you were not injured seriously during the Oni's final push
CT: []== This is Alcaeus Chiron by the way sir
CT: []== Good fighting today
CT: []== You are a credit to greenb100ds everywhere
CT: []== Oh fiddlesti%
CT: []== I hope that didn't sound condescending
CT: []== Where did I put that blasted towel

-- centurionTechnician [CT] is an idle troll! --

After checking the message, Karkinos remembers it's been a while since his last injection of hemoshift. He pulls out the box tucked under his recuperacoon to get the ingredients needed to synthesize it ready.

He opens it to find nothing. The raw materials, the empty syringes, the sterilizing kit, none of it remains. Just an empty box.

He pulls a chair under a certain ceiling tile and pushes it out of the way, feeling around in the darkness. He breathes a sigh of relief as he finds one of the three emergency doses stashed away. He replaces the tile and injects the chemical cocktail into his forearm.

But this is no time to relax. Someone knows his secret, or knows enough about it to unnerve him. If they knew about the hidden stash of chemicals under the recuperacoon, why not check in the ceiling for further contraband? If he's suspected of lying about his blood color, why hasn't he been brought in? Does command even know about hemoshift? And who broke into his respiteblock, anyway, and how did they know what to look for, and where to find it?

(That lack of action against him, he thinks, is what unnerves him most.)

Notes:

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So yeah, this chapter was basically to establish Alcaeus (who has to become Darkleer at some point, to give you a reason to keep reading) as a character a bit more, to establish Karkinos as a badass a bit more, and to set up the next chapter. Not the best chapter yet, but after not having a new one for over a month it was time to put something up.

If you haven't already, check out Hunters, which is a side-story to this. It's totally relevant, and you won't regret it (probably).

Stay tuned!

[draconicAlgorithm]

... Man I need to catch up. And work on things. But I just keep getting distracted by new ideas for AUs and crossovers and I think, "I'll just write a little bit and then get back to working on the stuff I've already started..." Except that the little bit becomes a full blown plot that I really want to work with. Ugh.

So uh. Have an angsty drabble that was prompted by the word "desert" and "exploring Dave's insecurities."

Also I'm horrible at titles.

Doomed

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He doesn't have a clue. Not a single fucking clue how much this hurts you, how much you wish things hadn't turned out this way. He stares at you with his sullen expression, not comprehending, not even trying to understand how you feel about all this. How much you fucking hate it, how much you hate yourself and the game and the job that's been given to you.

But how could he? How could he understand what you're feeling when you never lower your guard, when you never take off those shades and look into his eyes and tell him this is just how it's gotta fucking be. Because you can't do it. You can't remove that one thing protecting you from the rest of the world, even if it's to make him understand why you're doing this, why you're abandoning him when you know you're just going to die for it.

You hate yourself for it. It's a destructive hate as bad as anything Vantas has, and you know it, but unlike him, you won't acknowledge it. You won't go down that path. Unlike him, you have the means to beat the shit out of yourself. Also unlike him, you have the restraint not to.

Because, let's face it. You're gonna die soon anyway.

That's what you tell yourself, when you stare into his uncomprehending eyes, still red and puffy from dealing with the fact that Rose is dead and that you accidentally let Jade die. They're confused and hurt, and they rip through your heart, leaving bloody gouges behind. They tear and shred until you have to look away, trying to ignore the way he's grabbing at your shirt, demanding answers and yelling at you, begging you not to go, not to leave him by himself.

You almost break. You almost turn around and rip off your shades and make him understand why you have to do this. You're the only one who can go back and make things right. And you have to—the girls weren't meant to die. You both know they weren't. That's why it tears him up so bad, and that's why you have to make this decision to change things, even if it means that he, as he is at that very moment, will disappear.

But you don't. You can't do it, can't drag up the courage to take off those shades that have kept you hidden and safe for so long. You're going to die, and hell, can't you cling to something now that you know it's all pretty much over? Can't you at least face death with your shades intact? But no, he doesn't understand. He never will. He clutches the back of your shirt so tight that you're sure he's going to rip it, and he just keeps sobbing and babbling and pleading.

Somehow you ignore it all and spin your turntables, stepping back in time so that you can stop the events that lead to your timeline's undoing. His grip loosens as he realizes that you aren't going to change your mind. You leave him to darkness and oblivion while you go to your death. Your heart breaks as his ceases to exist.

His passing was painless. You know yours won't be. You still can't help but feel you betrayed his trust and deserted him, but at least you're going to die soon.