MSPA Fanfiction VII: End of Thread 6 Flash

[Nephirin]

Alright, then here. This is my first, so comments are appreciated.
http://serisserkues.deviantart.com/a...ings-300281662

Well. That was interesting. With a really dark ending. 0_o

I'd suggest going over your formatting, however. I get the sense that you originally wrote it in Microsoft Word and then copied it to the net, and the result is some weird line breaks and things generally being squished together.

[Blue_Icer]

Yeah, I know. I'll fix it later. Also...
Who said anything about a ending?
This is a three part series...



Also, fixed!

[SkaianRedeemer]

Yeah, either one works. I've done both, myself.

I think that if your work is too adult, as according to the rules, you're allowed to link to it if you provide warnings, but not to post it directly to the thread? I could be wrong about this, don't quote me on it.

With violence, this is definitely the case, and since that's all that seems to apply, cool beans. But hey, while we're here.

With sexual situations [I said "porn" but that's not right! E fics and art are right out, M only], it's a different story. You can't post adult situations of any of the characters who are minors in the comic even in link form, even if they're aged up. Implying sex for them (including pregnancy and even biological children) is also out. Who counts as a minor is a little fuzzy what with people being adults in different universes, but it's probably best to avoid everyone who isn't Dad, a carapace or Felt these days (I guess you've got 10 ancestors but your clock's a-tickin'). If you don't fall into that category, externally linking is still probably best: I only recall one such "allowed by the rules" fic posted directly into the thread.

In fact, since there's been so few sexual stories on the thread that if there's any gray areas involved, it's best just not to assume and go straight to a mod.

[childishGambino]

Just finished chapter 12 of Herding Cats, and fuujklrfhks it's a 16,000+ word memo. I didn't even intend for it to be that long, it just happened. And now I want to put like five different pesterlogs in the next sidelines chapter. Anyway, here it is.

Herding Cats - Chapter 12

[Dmatix]

Chapter 12 of my fic is up. Link in my signature as always.

[Blue_Icer]

Here's part one
http://serisserkues.deviantart.com/#/d4ys2ta
And part two (New)
http://serisserkues.deviantart.com/#/d4yvm59

[Garris]

Hi guys, I recently started a John/Dave sadstuck doomed timeline fic, I have the first chapter done, and I plan on doing more.

If you need more info are are some summaries:

Summary: (Overall) Doomed timeline story, a splinter-Dave Strider pays a visit to The Land of Wind and Shade to talk to John to get his head straight, however he finds John having been killed on the Quest Bed. and contemplates altering the timeline to avert it. How will this timeline end up?
Summary: (Chapter 1) Dave finds John at the quest bed and looks to Terezi for guidance. Hilarity (and sadness) ensues, Dave makes a decision that could have serious ramifications not only for him and John, but all of Sburb.

Warning, some mention of gore and usual Homestuck language, future chapters may recieve more warnings.

you can read Chapter 1: Time's Aegis at the fics AO3 page now:

http://archiveofourown.org/works/400241

Kinda my first stab at fic, concrit is appreciated.

[ailsagraystone]

I'm going to be writing a small fanfiction called Thieastuck (working title) and here is the summery under the spoiler;

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The game was never played when in Beta. Instead, SuBurb came out five years later. Four friends drifting apart, decided to play the game together for one last time. But twelve former players still remembered what happened in the Alpha timeline before the Scratch and Lord English's arrival. They set out to fix past mistakes and help the kids beat the game.
But Lord English is lose, and the kids and trolls will have to eventually face him to claim their prize for beating the game. Trails, romance, death and pain await the two parties. But to claim the Ultimate Reward, one must pass through the fires of hell to claim it.

Its going to be dark at times, bloody, but I'm thinking fun to write. I'll post links to the chapters if anyone is interested when I get them up.

[ArtemisTheHuntress]

I have to say, I love this thread. I'm always on the lookout for good fanfic, and I really like what everyone's done here!

I haven't written a whole lot of fanfiction, but I'm starting to more and more now, and... anyway. A little while ago I wrote this short fic.


Darkleer And The Disciple

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She crouched on the ground, shoulders back, eyes narrowed, teeth bared in a snarl full of hate and rage and directed straight at him.

Executor Darkleer took little notice. Another job, another victim. Regrettable but necessary. He had his orders, after all.

He reached back and pulled an arrow out of his quiver. He was in no hurry, and wanted to make this as clean and efficient as possible. After all, she couldn’t escape. Even if she tried to run, he could have an arrow through her back before she had gone three paces.

It didn’t matter. It was clear that she had no intention of running.

He didn’t even know her name. Not that it mattered; he often didn’t know the names of those that he was sent to kill. It was usually better this way. The Grand Highblood ordered executions, and Darkleer, true to his title, carried them out.

Besides, he was doubtful that even the Grand Highblood knew this woman’s name. Few were ever trusted with the personal names of the Signless’s little band, and most only knew them by their taken titles.

The woman crouching before him now, all he knew, called herself the Disciple.

And just because he didn’t know her name didn’t mean that the reverse was true.

“Executor Darkleer,” she growled up at him. “Here to finish the job, I take it?”

He didn’t answer her. Instead, he checked the balance of the arrow. Perfect, as ever.

“I’m the last one, aren’t I?” she continued, her voice bitter and angry. “The others are dead, or worse, all by your hand.”

“Yes,” he said curtly. He still didn’t look up at her.

She sat up slowly, sitting back on her heels, and turned to face him. She held the Righteous Leggings tight to her body. How exactly she had gotten them, Darkleer wasn’t sure, but in a moment it wouldn’t matter anyway.

Her glare on him never wavered.

“Get on with it, Executor,” one of the surrounding Highbloods snapped.

Darkleer shook his head. He had wasted enough time. He nocked the arrow and pulled the bowstring back, feeling the cool, deadly power waiting in the warping wood as he aimed the arrow’s point at the woman on the ground.

The Disciple didn’t flinch, didn’t try to move away. She followed his movements with slitted eyes, the way a predator follows its prey. As if she was in charge. As if she held the power here.

It was... unnerving, almost.

Darkleer had lost count long ago of the number of executions he had performed. By now, he had seen every reaction that the condemned could give. Some would plead with him, beg for their lives, attempt to convince him that it was a mistake or bribe him into letting them go. Some would try to run or fight. Some walked in meekly and never reacted, their eyes dull and blank as if they were dead already, and they were just waiting for him to make it official. A few would act with a boldness and bravado that Darkleer had long since come to recognize as false. It never made any difference to their fate. If they were to die, then they died.

The Disciple, though, didn’t fit into any of the categories that he was used to. She stared straight at him, mouth set in a hard line, eyes blazing with fire and pride and defiance.

It was the defiance in her look that gave him pause.

It wasn’t the hollow, showy swagger of bravery that he sometimes got, from those that were terrified to the core but didn’t want to seem weak. The look in the Disciple’s eyes was far more personal; it wasn’t a show for him or for anyone, and she didn’t care if he saw it or not. It was there because it was genuine.

She was a follower of the Signless, possibly the most prominent rebel in Alternian history. Heresy was the Disciple’s cause, rebellion by now second nature to her. That was why she needed to die.

But the idea wasn’t just to kill the rebels. It was to crush the rebellion. And the Disciple refused to be crushed.

Defiance of class, defiance of orders, defiance of circumstance, defiance of fate, defiance of him; it was there in her eyes because she would honestly not let anything control her. It was clear that no one could tell her what to do or what to think, if it disagreed with what she thought was best. And because of that, she was meeting her death on her own terms, and no one else’s. It wasn’t just defiance of worldly structures; it was almost defiance of Death itself.

Darkleer couldn’t meet those eyes. He looked down at his hands instead.

That was the thing... the defiance. It... it was something that he had always shied away from, in any form, because he didn’t know how to deal with the conflicting feelings it gave him.

Naturally, he detested it. Everything had its place, and rules were in existence for a reason. The Highbloods, by dint of their noble birth, were in charge; the lowbloods were to follow their laws. That was the natural order of things. It kept people in line and it kept society running. If everyone were to act out of their station, the world would collapse. Darkleer firmly believed this, and always had. Rules were for following; orders were for obeying.

And yet...

And yet, those that were truly defiant - who refused to follow laws they called unjust, who refused to let arbitrary rules dictate what they should and shouldn’t do and think and feel - they had always elicited from Darkleer... disgust, yes, but also a grudging, secret, almost admiration.

In the way that one can admire boldness, without agreeing with it - because one has to admire, just a little, the courage and unashamed audacity of the person in question - because they know they could never be brave or bold enough to follow through with something like that, and have to be impressed with anyone who can - in this way, Darkleer viewed the defiance he would never, could never go through with himself. These people had a kind of strength - a strength perverted by the use it was put to, but strength nonetheless - that he knew he would never have.

The Disciple had this strength of will, this strength of heart, that was part of her very life-force. It was irrevocably entwined with her spirit, her mind, every energy. And despite her situation now - kneeling on the ground, seconds away from execution - it was what put her incontrovertibly in charge.

Because that was the look in her flashing green eyes, a look that clearly said, If you kill me now, I win.

There was nothing Darkleer could do.

He closed his eyes and brought the bow down, unfired, bowstring loose and arrow pointed harmlessly at the ground.

A low, hostile murmur came from the surrounding Highbloods. Darkleer ducked his head and muttered something about sweaty palms.

Above the muted voices of the bystanders, the Disciple’s voice was clear and cold. “Well? Aren’t you going to kill me, Executor?”

The voices petered out. He continued to stare down at his hands.

“No,” he finally said.

The silence now was sudden and oppressive.

“What?” she asked, sounding as if she hadn’t quite heard correctly.

He looked up, and for the first time, met her eyes full-on.

She was frowning at him. She was suspicious, but confusion temporarily replaced overt hostility in her expression.

“Fire, Executor,” hissed a Highblood on his right.

He had to. Darkleer gripped his bow, prepared to raise it... and couldn’t. He couldn’t kill her.

Darkleer shook his head.

“Go,” he said to the kneeling woman. “Just... get out of here. Go.”

She stared at him. He met her gaze evenly.

Something passed between them - not quite an order, not quite a challenge, certainly not an apology, and nothing even remotely resembling forgiveness - but something.

The Disciple nodded once. She stood up, still clutching the Righteous Leggings to her chest, and never taking her once again steely glare off of Darkleer. After a moment’s pause, she spun around and scampered away. And even then there was a grace to her movements, a kind of pride. Her head was held high, and she was as regal as any empress.

Darkleer watched her go until she disappeared into the trees.

Neither had any illusions for what this meant for their respective futures. The Disciple was left nothing but a life of solitude, spent in hiding, far from anyone who might know her - far from anyone at all.

And Darkleer knew that he would face punishment for his disobedience. He half-expected to be executed on the spot by the irate Highbloods surrounding him.

But it accomplished nothing to dwell on these things. What was done was done. Even if he had wanted to track down the Disciple, he knew that he would never find her again. He had made his choice. He would have to accept the consequences.

After all, rules were rules.

(Also, I am the best with creative titles guys.)

[ArcFour]

I decided to redo the Heir of Rage, because I wasn't happy with it. So, I took a break from the Doom classes and figured it out. Here it is! Next will be the Knight of Doom, then the Prince; I have both written up and will post them soon.

Heir of Rage: Redux

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To Be, and in Being, Rise. That is my Quest.

And it is quite the quest, my friends.

This Title is a troubling one, isn’t it? It sounds so disturbing. And it has brought me no end of questions and concerns from my fellow players. Many, many concerns, the poor things.

And I’m certain you have questions of your own, do you not?

After all, the Heir’s role is to inherit, to be, their Aspect, where all others merely reflect one minor facet of the greater whole. And to be Rage? You’d think I’d be some sort of violent, split-personality monstrosity, an out-of-control terror obsessed with mindless destruction.

A funny thought, to be sure, and one that my fellows have brought up many a time, but it also shows a lack of understanding. Or should I say, Understanding.

The Heir’s role is many things, and one facet of that is to be aware of the Trifecta, that sadly doomed Trio whose failure is almost inherent to their nature.

I speak, of course, of the Unbalanced Three, the Mage, Witch, and Seer. To have Power, but no Control; to have Control, but no Understanding; to have Understanding, but no Power. It seems that, no matter which of them you are, you are doomed to have the deck stacked against you, doesn’t it?

But the Heir has no such problems. I have all three; Power, Understanding, and perhaps greatest of all, Control.

And here is where we learn the root of everything that Rage represents. This is what my friends have yet to see for themselves.

Do you think it represents Death and Destruction? Of course not; such things are inherent to Doom, that sad Aspect of the End. Rage is not this.

Perhaps you think it means that fire, that heat of emotion, the bloodlust and battle-song that seems to infect those of the Aspect? No. The names of Sburb’s Aspects are strange things, and do not always represent what the name would indicate. These emotions are the purview of War, and perhaps a lesser facet of Hate. Rage is not this.

So, I am sure you are saying, does it mean insanity? Is it the shattering of that fragile barrier between stability and instability? If you believe this, then you are more foolish than you appear.

After all, Insanity is one of Sburb’s favorite tools. It matters not the Aspect in which it takes hold; all Aspects deal with it equally. Rage is not this.

No, it was that dear Witch who got it right. Not my own, of course; she is too blind to her own faults to have any such success at her own quest, too concerned with me and mine. No, I speak of an alternate Witch of my own Aspect. She set it up so beautifully, didn’t she? Rewriting the game code to engineer her own rise to Godhood, and in doing so, reasserting Control of her own mind; it was a perfect ploy.

But there is also the Knight, isn’t there? Plagued by his rage, his own uncontrollable urge to jump into the fray, beyond reason or will; not until the end, until he was faced with tragedy, was he able to take Control of himself.

You saw them all, didn’t you? The Maid, taken by the Game to assert its will. The Bard, lost to the tyrannical musings of blasphemous gods. The Page, driven only by the depths of his own self-loathing. And the Sylph.

Oh, the Sylph; what an amazing failure to watch! To see a player who, by their own inherent nature, caused a session to be unwinnable? Truly astounding!

But surely, my friends, you see the pattern before you. Surely you understand, as I do. Even if my team doesn’t see it yet, surely you do.

We are creatures without Control.

And to succeed, we must find it.

I do not speak of the Maid, that tool of the Game, who was used to see the creation of a new world, at the cost of her own sense of self. Her session was winnable, but she did not win. Understand that; she did not win. She did not attain Control.

That is the danger of this Game; that it can be won, and every player in it still lose.

But I am the Heir, and that means that I Understand. I know exactly the Power that brews within me, and I do not care. Because I have the only thing that matters; I have Control.

So tell me this, observers.

Why can’t they see that?

Why can’t they see ThAt?

WhY Can’T ThEy SeE ThAt?

W4Y C*N3T TH8Y 5%E TH&T?

NO.

No.

No.

No.

No.

I am in control.

You see? I am in control.

Can’t you see it?

The Knight had to see his teammate almost die to do that. The Witch had to die herself to attain it. And the Sylph never, ever found it. I have control.

I am in control.

They’ll see it.

My team has to see it. They have to.

I am the Heir of Rage, and my Quest is to Be, and in Being, Rise.

And I control my own fate.

They’ll all understand eventually.

They’ll understaND.

Also, I just noticed that my story is on the Fanfic Recs on TVTropes? How cool is that? So cooooool, is the correct answer. Maybe someday, The Game, and Those Who Play, will have its OWN TV TROPES PAGE.

What, a guy can dream, can't he?

[childishGambino]

Chapter 13 of Herding Cats is up on AO3. Pressing events in this chapter: Karkat and Gamzee talk about pies, Terezi and Eridan talk about butts, and Nepeta and Equius talk about flirting. Also, it's now over 10,000 words per chapter on average. What is wrong with me????

Herding Cats - Chapter 13

[ArcFour]

Okay, here's the real Knight of Doom!

I was on a real roll today; I wrote the Knight, Prince, Seer, and Bard, and I might see about writing the Witch today, as well. WHO KNOWS?

I attribute the writing streak to finding my story on TV Tropes in the Fanfic Recs section; that sure is a motivator, aye?

The only thing that might motivate me more is if it got its OWN PAGE. *x1 unsubtle suggestion bonus*

Enjoy the Knight!

3 - Knight

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The world is burning.

Your green earth, your blue skies, your deep seas and high mountains, your hated school and loved library, your home, is burning.

Everyone you ever knew is going to die, and it’s only by the whims of Fate that you will be one of the few alive. You can barely believe it.

Your server is pestering you, but you decide to ignore it for now. You have plenty of time. Minutes of it, according to the timer on that abominable machine. You can afford to wait, and watch the world burn.

The fiery stone falling from the heavens looks almost molten; the heat of atmospheric entry has turned the metal and stone of its composition a bright, cherry-red, like an oven’s element. The air itself is screaming with these molten messengers’ passage, and you wonder at the force of friction that is causing that hellish noise. Every so often, you feel a force hit you, as one of the larger stones impacts the ground at such a speed to cause shockwaves. In the distance, you watch a city start to collapse under its wait as it is barraged by meteors. Skyscrapers fall, and you know this sight is probably a common one, all around the world.

The world is burning, and you will never forget the sight of it. You’re going to burn the image to your retinas, like a branding iron straight into your neurons. You’re going to frame this image in molten fucking gold, set it on a pedestal of cherry-red stone, and drench it in the blood of every fucking person who’s died today, so that whenever you speak, whenever you fight, whenever you sleep, whenever you open your god damned eyes, you will remember.

You answer the pestering, now. It’s time to get into this game.

Your sprite is strobe-lighting beside you, flashing bright white and green. Its serpentine tongue keeps flickering, in and out, and you idly wonder if it’s in Morse code as you walk up the steps to where the last of your machines is located. Your friend is frantic, and worried, scared that you aren’t going to make it in time, afraid at your calm demeanor in the face of all this chaos, but that just shows that she doesn’t understand.

You aren’t calm. You’re angry.

Angry doesn’t seem a strong enough word, so you begin pulling other words out of your head to describe it. Mad. Enraged. Infuriated. Choleric. Livid.

Wrathful.

There you go.

You reach the top of the steps, and enter the room where you will create your entry item. You’ve determined that Serpentsprite’s tongue flickering isn’t Morse code. You look out the window, and you see a meteor that seems to be quite a bit larger than any of the others that have fallen so far.

It’s heading straight for you. Surprise, surprise.

You use your totem, and create your entry item. It’s a figure of a man, kneeling with his head on a chopping block.

You almost laugh, but you resist that temptation. Then you pull out the woodcutting axe from your strife specibus. You’d picked that specibus as a joke, years ago; a bookish shut-in wasn’t going to have many chances to cut wood.

Well. You suppose that’s still true.

You ready your axe, and think of heroes of mythology. You think of their mighty weapons, those swords used by brave, mythic figures in the face of evil. You think of Durendal, of Kusanagi, of Caladbolg.

You think of Excalibur, and you know that you will never wield such a weapon in your quest.

Yours isn’t the fate of a Knight, a glorious hero on a holy quest.

Yours is the fate of a killer, and your weapon will be the headsman’s axe.

Eventually, you’d find the beings responsible for the fate of your world. And when you did, heads were going to roll.

You bring the axe down, and the whistle of the blade through the air combines with the scream of the stone that is coming for you, and together they sound almost like words, whispering in your ear.

Come, witness my judgment, the Executioner says. And know that it is inevitable.

[ArcFour]

Here's the Prince of Doom! I think that the Knight and Prince are some of the more interesting titles I've written so far.

Next is the Seer!

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This world has become a sad place.

Once it was alive; the air was clear, the water was blue, the earth was green.

But now, the air is filled with ash, the water has dried to dust, and the earth is nothing but sand, blowing in the dry, arid wind.

Ash, dust, and sand. This is what your home is, now.

It is pretty damn depressing. Almost as depressing as your new friend.

Well, kind of friend, kind of enemy. Is it strange to think that he’s both at once? You almost wonder what that would be like, if friends and enemies were the same thing, but that’s a stupid train of thought that’s probably brought on by extreme overexposure.

You wondered, once, if Gods could die of starvation or thirst. Apparently not, but they can go sun-crazy.

You wonder if your friend-enemy can starve. He’s either got a stash of food and drink he won’t show you, or that damn ring he’s wearing is keeping him sated.

You hope it’s the latter; if he was hiding food, you’d probably just have to kill him.

You ask him if he’s been hiding food, and he tells you off in his insufferably calm way. That’s stupid, he says, as he looks at the sky. Where would I put it, he says, and you say that you have a few ideas, and none of them are pretty, and he glares at you.

Bugging each other is about all you guys can do, now. It’s not like you’re going anywhere.

It’s unfortunate that neither of you guys can fly. You might be able to go somewhere if that was true. You remember your friends all zooming around on Derse and Prospit like a bunch of zany sparrows or something, and you feel a little sad. Your dreamself was never able to fly, and damn it all, your Godself can’t either.

You just suppose that it’s fortunate that your frenemy can’t either, despite the ring’s prototyping. Him with wings would have been even more of a terror to fight; it was enough of a battle to get him exiled as it was.

And in the end, it still took some sacrifice.

You think of your friends, and you hope they’re doing alright. You don’t want them wasting too much time on you; they’ve got bigger things to worry about, and you think that maybe, you were always meant to do this.

After all, this penultimagent beside you would have killed you all if he’d had the chance. But now he’s gone, and never again will his spear threaten your friends. You averted the doom of your session, and that feels right.

You destroyed Doom. It sounds a lot grander than ‘you grappled him until the meteor took both of you back to old, ruined Earth’, doesn’t it? It sounds more mythic.

It makes you sound like kind of a hero.

You think of your Brother, who wanted to get into politics. You think of your old dreams, of being Governor or Senator or President, and changing the world.

You wanted to grasp the world, but it crumbled to ash, dust, and sand before you could.

The Demonic Destroyer gives you an aside glance, and mutters that you should probably stop crying like a little baby, and you smack him and tell him to shut his lying mouth. Frenemies to the end, you both are.

What strange circumstances these are. Weeks ago, you were at trying to kill each other. Now? Now it just sort of seems a waste.

It’s not like there’s anyone else around.

You look up to the sky, and you hope that the rest of your friends have taken you for dead. You don’t want them here. They have their own life to live, their own world to rule.

And you suppose that you have yours.

The sky is full of ash, the oceans have become dust, the wind blows the sands of the earth, and you are the last human in the world, which means it’s all yours. What a sad prize.

You stand by your companion, and listen to the wind, and think of the last time you saw your friends, and you think of the words that came to you as you fell to this ruined Earth.

Go, leave my realm, the Ruler says. For it is mine to rule, and mine alone.

As you all know, comments and critiques and opinions are always welcome.

[mythmonster2]

I'm still reading each of these classes, ArcFour, and I still find them each creative, unique, and fascinating. I really like the overarching themes you've introduced in each element, like the Question for the Hope classes, and the separate titles for the Doom people. Really ties together the whole thing into the huge thing we know as Sburb. Your series is great, and if I had the know-how to give it its own TvTropes page, I would.

[Varkarrus]

read em all just now in one sitting, thanks for the recommendation mythmonster! Not sure why I just decided to pass over them. Mostly cuz I go here for Herding Cats only.

[ArcFour]

Thanks, mythmonster; it's always great to hear good opinions!

Creating the 'running theme' of each Aspect is one of the things I have the most fun with. And with Doom, I'm trying to do a little bit of experimenting with making them different; I don't want to get too deeply entrenched in a formula, after all. And the Knight, Prince, and the upcoming Bard all do a pretty good job of being outside that.

So, here's the Seer; next is the Bard!

5 - Seer

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The most important thing to remember is that the Game is just a game. No more, no less.

Yes, it’s a game where you can die. Yes, it’s a game that destroys worlds. Yes, it’s a game that will create a universe.

But it’s a game, nonetheless, and realizing that is the first step to beating it.

The odds were never good, but you can make them better by knowing the facts.

So here they are. Here is your goal. Here are your obstacles. Here is what you are.

This is how you start putting together your equation.

You’ve always been a bit of a math nut, you’ll admit, but this is for real, and this is how you’ll win.

You have to beat the obstacles, and the key to that is simple; know their strengths.

So you decide to give an arbitrary numbers so you can set up the equation. An Imp equals 1. Simple enough.

Through trial and error (mostly error), you discover that you entered the game at about 3. This discovery came about quite simply; you easily defeated one imp, you marginally defeated two, and you barely defeated three.

And when four came along, you decided not to push your luck.

From then, the equation became simple. When your side equaled the strength of the enemy’s side, then it was up to luck. And because luck was now a controllable variable, thanks to the powers of Light, most even fights were easily winnable.

The numbers keep coming together, in a vast Equation that runs itself through your head in every moment. No other player could possibly begin to decipher its workings as you can, and even you have difficulty figuring out all of its meanings and rules, but you do what you must. Players begin to level, and as they do, their value in the Equation rises. Powers develop, and they are calculated and added to the Equation. Relationships come together and break apart, and the Equation changes. Denizens are challenged, and the Equation changes.

An arrow prepares to fly. The odds aren’t good, but Breath powers can even the odds. An arrow flies, and hits its target.

A player prepares to open a tomb. The odds are good that the tomb contains a monster, based on previously discovered data. The player is forewarned, and avoids ambush.

An Archagent offers his assistance. The odds aren’t good that he means it, based on the profile you have formed on him. A betrayal is avoided.

And the Equation forms ever on and on. It grows in complexity like a living thing, and with every change you see how it all wants to come together.

Until one day, it does. The final unknown variable resolves itself (because he never would have loved you, silly obsessed girl that you are), and the Equation becomes clear.

Your team will fail.

The facts are known. The logic is sound. The numbers are clear. The Equation has spoken.

The Game has decided to become unbeatable.

But this cannot be the end; after all, this is merely a Game, and any game is, by definition, beatable. It’s just a matter of removing the right variables. It takes time, a lot of time of meditation and reflection on the subtleties of the Equation, but you are able to find it easily enough. After all, numbers have always been sort of your thing.

And the answer is extremely predictable.

The first thing you do is write a letter. It’s an important letter. Then you tell your players the new plan. You tell them what you have discovered, and you tell them the variable they have to remove.

They aren’t surprised to hear that they have to face the Black Queen.

You set up an ambush; it is surprisingly simple, seeing as she is a creature of habit. The ambush sways the fight a little in your favor, but not much; her power alone skyrockets over 9000 in the equation. You decide not to tell your friends that fact; they rely too much on memes for their humor as it is.

You all face her, and she faces you, and when the battle starts, it goes exactly as the Equation dictated it would. She strikes, they dodge. They attack, she shrugs it off. She retaliates, they misdirect. The battle goes on and on, eight flies biting at a giant, until it all changes.

She moves, and strikes for the Knight.

The Knight trips against the wall.

And the Queen moves in for the kill.

And finds you.

The blade is cold in your gut, for a moment, before it suddenly becomes fiery, fiery hot, as every nerve in your stomach begins to fire. The odds would dictate that you only have a few seconds to live.

They’re good seconds, though. You look at the Knight, and smile; even if he could never have loved you, you still loved him. You can’t quite decipher the look in his eyes, but you like what you see regardless. You hope he won’t be too sad; his team will need him. And after you’re gone, he’ll find the letter you left him. The one that says that you knew this was going to happen.

Because it was never the Queen that needed to be removed from the Equation.

It was you.

And now that you have been removed from the Equation, the game is winnable.

Your seconds slip away, like sand from an hourglass, and your dying thoughts are of the Knight, and of words from a long forgotten dream.

Come, don’t you see, the Oracle says. This is the way it was always going to be.

Edit: I have to admit, Moldova, Herding Cats is a pretty good reason to come here. It's frickin' hilarious.

[FowlJ]

So, while I'm still working on my other story, I've had a bit of writer's block (for which I blame Dave's impossible to write dialogue), and I decided to try something a bit different in the mean time.

You could say it's loosely inspired by ArcFour's work, though so far I've only read the first few chapters of The Game and Those Who Play - Basically I took a randomly generated Title, name, and Land and just wrote with it based on my idea of what the class should be. I may do more of them, but for now, let's have The Mage of Blades in the Land of Wind and Coins.

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Neil looked out his window, which just recently had been repaired by his server player after being shattered by one of the coin storms that frequented this planet. They had been here now for almost four weeks, and they seemed no closer to a victory than when they first arrived. Three of his friends had lost their dream selves – killed while they slept on the moon of Derse. Neil had been awake at the time, and had fled, through the complicated architecture of the city down into the underground, where he would not be found.

He should have been faster. He knew that the agents were after them – they had visited him first, after all. He could have fought. He could have woken them. Warned them. He could have been stronger. It was a failure. His failure. His arm snapped out behind him by reflex, his whip splitting the head of a golden imp before its body dissolved into Grist. He turned and left the room.

He wasn't sure where he was going, or why. He traveled up the stairs, taking a brief moment to admire his server's architectural ability before hopping into the first gate like he had so many times already. They were waiting for him on the other side, like he had known deep down already. Black shells showing through gaps in the shrouds they wore to protect them from the wind. Five of them, carrying the swords of high ranking officers.

They split up, surrounding him quickly and beginning to close in. Two attacked from opposite directions. Sparks flew as their blades met Neil's own, spectral forms hovering in the air around him. The agents stepped back. The blades followed. Neil closed his eyes, every clash echoing in his mind, each a regret, each a mistake. The sounds became louder, louder and louder until it was painful for him to hear. He stepped to the side, his blade flying where he used to be. He heard the strike, heard the body fall.

He opened his eyes. The Dersites were dead, the sand splattered with their blood. As the wind picked up and coins began to fall, Neil began to walk away. The shifting of the sand beneath his feet was a new sound. It was a resolution. A promise.

He would not fail again.

[ArcFour]

I like that a lot, FowlJ; the image of the falling coins sounds like an awesomely vivid land to have, and I always love extrapolating on class ideas.

Also, I really, really suggest reading farther into my story. The quality increases pretty much exponentially as you go along.

[FowlJ]

I like that a lot, FowlJ; the image of the falling coins sounds like an awesomely vivid land to have, and I always love extrapolating on class ideas.

Also, I really, really suggest reading farther into my story. The quality increases pretty much exponentially as you go along.

Why thank you.

And I certainly intend to do so, I just haven't been reading much lately.

EDIT: So, I actually decided to do another right away, because it was quick to do the first and really rather fun. This one took longer, and I don't think it is as good, but oh well. Here we have The Host of Storm in the Land of Pipes and Waves - Now with even less canon! It's radically different from the first one, and I think the plot is kinda generic, but it's already done, so whatever.

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Thunder sounded as another pipe burst, water crashing down on the village below. After it has drained, Erik stepped off of his perch and fell towards the ground, landing cleanly on his feet. He looked around at the carnage, his eyes glowing a brilliant blue to contrast the burnt orange robes that shrouded him. Emblazoned on the front was a circle which inside held a bolt of lightning. Grist of all sorts littered the ruins, as did the panthers that had once called them home. Erik collected it all and, judging that there was nothing left for him at the bottom of the ravine, took to the sky.

A sound came from his sylladex, someone attempting to communicate with him. He took out his phone and looked over the message, before tossing it aside. A waste of time. After not long, Erik spotted his new target coming into view – the palace that held the world's denizen. He landed at the entrance, and with a flash and a clap of thunder fired a shot inside.

He wouldn't want to arrive unannounced.

She responded to his challenge. He found her waiting in the main chamber, ready to face a foe she could not hope to defeat. The palace began to shake, ornaments falling from their places on the walls and hanging from the ceiling. The denizen charged, realizing that waiting would do no good. Erik grinned, knowing that her attack would do no better.

She was knocked back by his shock. He sent another. And another. She struggled to rise, and Erik threw his arms wide, inviting the thunder to bring the palace down. The ceiling collapsed on top of the both of them.

From the dust and ashes, Erik rose. He laughed, for a long time he simply laughed, until he doubled over and he coughed, blood spilling over the stones. Rain drops began to fall as he stumbled out of the ruins. He hated the rain. He tried to make it go away, lightning crackling over his skin, but nothing happened to the rain clouds. He tripped and fell, feeling something move out of place under his skin. He lay there as the rain fell down, watched his reflection in a puddle as the glow faded from his eyes.

The ruins shifted. The denizen rose.

[chronicProcrastinator]

Uuuh. Sup guys. This is my first post here in an absolute age, though I have dipped my head in for a looksee-loo every now and again. I am absolutely loving this thread, though I am only a few pages in so far, and wanted to share. Arcfour, your character profiles are quite the most more-ish thing I have read in weeks. And I cannot wait to have another crack at some of the other stories in here too- especially Decker`s "The Loaded Key". So yeah, made props all up ins this thread, basically.

I would love as much creative criticism as I can get, if that is allowed/expected here.

So anyway, this is this first proper elaboration of an idea I had last year while binging on Midnight Spider http://homestuckgaiden.bandcamp.com/...idnight-spider . It has been kicking around my head for a while, and I finally decided to put nose to grindestone and pour something back into the thread.

The basic idea is a sort of HomeStuck crime noir AU, told through the point of view of a different character each chapter. It would mainly focus on the Beta kids and the trolls, with some side characters and as few OC`s as possible- pretty much just denzines and exiles holding down the side roles in the story and jobs needed for the city to function. To be honest the basic idea came from the track picture for Midnight Spider. I am not quite sure how to place it on the AU/ties into cannon scale however, either they all live in a city after completing the game, or just a straight up AU. Any advice Appreciated!

THIOCARBAMIDE ROULETTE
CHAPTER ONE MAYBE?

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I WAS ROYALLY PISSED. AND EVERYTHING WAS RIGHT WITH THE WORLD.

BUT SERIOUSLY, WHERE DID THOSE NUMBNUTS GET OFF? I`L TELL YOU WHERE, HEAD FIRST INTO A WALL IS WHERE, RETARDS HAD BRAIN DAMAGE COMING OUT OF THE EARS. WHAT THE HELL WERE THOSE PUTRID PASTY NUTJOBS TRYING TO PROVE. EVRYONE KNOWS THE PLACE IS A DERSE BAR. I GUESS THEY KNEW TOO, OR ELSE THEY WOULD BE WINDOWL LIICKING THINKPAN CRCKED I DOUBT THEY COULD BREATH. I MEAN JUST GO TAKE GANDER AT THAT SHIT, DICKNUTS, THESE LONG PURPLE DRAPE THINGS ALL RIPPLING LIKE THEY GOT THE SCHINZOFRENIC SPIRIT IN EM, HOW I DON`T FUCKIN KNOW THE PLCE HAD NO WINDOWS BUT HELL YOU DO *NOT* QUESTION THE LADY. PURPLE FLOOR AS WELL, REAL WOOD TOO, BUT FOR SOME REASON THEY WANTED PUPRLE, LIKE THEY GAVE GAMZEE A TROUGH OF MAROONDIGO CYSTSPLOSION FRUIT GUSHERS AND TOLD HIM TO SPIN AROUND . *EXACTLY* LIKE THEY GAVE GAMZEE A TROUGH OF MAROONDIGO CYSTSPLOSION FRUIT GUSHERS AND TOLD HIM TO SPIN AROUND. GOG WHY ME.

WHY DO I KNOW WHAT MAROONDIGO CYSTSPLOSION FRUIT GUSHERS ARE. FUCK JOHN AND HIS ASSHAT ALCHEMY BULSHIT. I MEAN THEY DIDN`T EVEN GET A GOOD COAT OF ALCHEMY BULLSHIT, ITS ALL BLOTCHY AND SHIT I WOULD HAE THOUGHT THE MIS TLL BLACK AND TERRIFUCKINGFYING WOULD HVE AT LEAST GONE FOR A FLOOR PLAN THAT DIDN’T MAKE THE GUESTS THINKPANS GET ALL SHITMASSACRED, AT LEAST UNTIL AFTER THEY PAID FOR THE DRINKS BUT GOG DAMMIT NOOKSPLASH I ALREADY TOLD YOU , YOU DON`T QUESTION THE LADY.

ANYWAY. WHERE WAS I. OH YEAH.FUCK, I KNEW I WAS GOING TO HAVE TO BE THE ONE TO CLEAN UP. THE BAND WOULD BE HERE SOON, AND YEAH I KNOW THERE NOT A BAND EVERYONE DOES BUT TILL WE CAN PROVE ANYTHING THE CHIEF WOULNT MAKE MOVE, LOGJAMM OF A POLICE COMMISSIONAR WILL NOT MAKE A MOVE WITHOUT IT BEING BY THE BOOK, DAMN RIGHT HE`S AIMLESS. BUT THEY COME IN HERE TO PLAY EVERY SO OFTEN. THEY PLAY GOOD, TOO.

SO THERE THE OLD PROPITIAN HOMEBOYS SIT, ELBOWS ON THE PURPLE TABLECLOTH, ASSES ON THE PURPLE SEATS ALL CUSHONY LIKE, TRYING TO MAKE A NAME FOR THEMSELVES AND TO HELL WITH THE CONSEQUENCESS. HELL WHAT DO I CARE WHY THEIR HERE. ANYWAYS, SO I AM STANDING THERE POLISHING THIS GLASS UP TILL IT DAMN WELL SHINES LIKE THE NOONDAY SUN, GOT MY DIRTY RAG ACTION JUST RIGHT TO SMEAR THE GREASE ON THE OUTSIDE TO CATCH THE LIGHT, WHEN THE DOOR BUSTS IN AND I AM ALL LIKE SHIT. GOTTA KEEP MY BARKEEP COOL THOUGH.

SO ME AND THE BAND RIGHT, WE HAVE AN ARANGEMENT. THEY DON`T RUTHELESSLY GUT ME WHILE I SLEEP AND SPREAD MY ORGANS ABOUT THEIR TABLE LIKE HAPPY-FUN CRACKERS ON HUMAN JEGUS DAY, AND I DON`T REPORT THEM. WHICH, BEING THE UPWARDLY MOBILE LAW ABIDING CITIZEN LIKE I AM, MEANS I GOG WELL SKEDADLE RIGHT OUT OF THERE BEFORE I CAN SEE ANYTHING GO DOWN. PLAUSABLE DENIABILITY OR WHATEVER. I AM THE BEST COP. I HATE HAVING TWO JOBS.

SO ANYWAY BOXCARS COMES IN LIKE A BOXCAR THROUGH AN ETHNIC VEGETABLE SALES STAND, AND GOES STRAIGHT FOR EM, BUT STOPS A COUPLE OF METERS OUT, DOWN ONE OF THE ROWS OF TABLES RIGHT INFRONT OF THE STAGE, WHY DID THEY CHOOSE FIRST ROW SEATS. SUICIDAL BASTARDS. BOXCARS JUST STOPS AND RAISES HIS HAMBARREL OF A FIST AND JUST LIKE KEEPS IT RAISED, GIVIN EM THE OL` GOOGLY EYED `I AM ABOUT TO REMOVE SOME NECCESERY PART OF YOUR ANATOMY AND INGEST IT` STARE. THEY START SHAKING FIT TO EXPLODE VIOLENTLY. GUESS THEY ARE NOT THAT INSANE AT ALL. WHEN THAT HAPPENED I JUST ABOUT DROPPED MY GLASS, BUT I DIDN’T, I TURNED AROUND AND PUT IT ON THE SHELF LIKE A GOOD LITTLE EMPLOYEE WHY DOES ROAD TAX AND INSURANCE AND TRAFFIC CRIME LAW SUITS HAVE TO BE A THING AND SO EXPENSIVE I HATE THE MAYOR. SO I PUT THE GLASS DOWN AND I JUST ABOUT JUMP OUT OF MY SKIN BECAUSE SLICK IS *RIGHT* *THEIR*. BEHIND ME. HE CALLS AT HB, TELLS HIM TO WAIT A MINUET. GIVES ME A LITTLE PAT ON THE SHOULDER, ALL BROTHERLY AND SHIT, TELLS ME WHAT A GREAT PERSON I AM AND HOW WONDERFULL MY LACK OF VICOUS STAB WOUNDS LOOK THIS EVENING. APARENTLY THERES A REAL INTRESTING CLOUD OUT IN THE PARKING LOT, AND IT JUST ABOUT SMASHED BOTH MY WING MIRRORS. SO I FIGURE ITS TIME TO HEAD HOME. TIME TO BLOW THE HECK OUT OF DODGE LIKE A TUMBLEWEED WITH TROLL ATTENTION DEFICIT DISORDER. SO JACK GIVES ME THIS LITTLE PARTING FRIENDSHIP STAB ALL GENTLE IN THE MEAT OF MY ARM, JUST A FLESH WOUND, I CATCH A HAT TIP FROM THE DROOG AND A FIST BUMP FROM DROLL, GOD HE`S SO UNCTIOS. OH GOD HE HAS A BOB-OMB PENIS CANE WHY. FUCK YOU STRIDER AND YOUR FUCKING RENT-A-ALCHIMETER OH LOOK AT ME I`M SUCH FUCKING STOCK BROCKER COMICS GENIUS MILLIONAIRE I CAN JUST LEND OUT MY GOD LIKE POWER FOR A SMALL FEE LIKE IT AINT NO THING. I RUN.

I`M JUST CHECKING MY CAR IN THE PARKINGLOT OUTSIDE, JUST A SQUARE OF ASPHALT CRAMMED INTO THE ALLEY BEHIND THE BAR, HELL THE BARS IN AN ALLEY WHAT KIND OF ALLEY HAS ITS OWN SUB ALLEY. THAT SHITS BUTT NUGET IN HAND RETARED, AND OH LOOK MY WINGMIRRORS ARE BROKEN. I HATE CLOUDS. MOIST BASTARDS. SO I FIGURED I BETTER GET HOME BEFORE I CATCH A TICKET FROM SOME OVER JUDICOUS COP WHO DOESN’T KNOW BETTER THAN TO TICKET HIS VERY OWN BROTHER IN ARMS. I HATE HAVING TWO JOBS. DID I TELL YOU I HAD TWO JOBS? I-OKAY OKAY FINE SHUT UP I`LL GET BACK TO THE STORY. AND I CAN REMEMBER THE TIMETABLE RIGHT, BECAUSE I HAD TO SPEND LIKE AN HOUR MEMORISING IT AT THE STATION, AND LIKE TWO OR THREE WORKING OUT WHAT IT WAS MEANT TO SAY BECAUSE WHO THOUGHT IT WAS A GOOD IDEA TO LET THE BLIND GAL DRAW UP THE TIMETABLE IN THE FIRST PLACE. JEGUS. AND SO I KNOW EQUIS IS ON TRAFFIC DUTY RIGHT NOW. GOG HE HAS A MANSION HE DOESN’T HAVE TO WORK, BUT NO HE HAS TO GO AND RUB MY FACE IN THE SWEET SWEATY NOOK OF HIS CIVIC DUTY. AND LIKE I HAVE A SPARE TOWEL SOMEWHERE IN THE BACK, BECAUSE I PLAN AHEAD, SO I CAN JUST THROUGH SOME ORDERS HIS WAY, IT`L BE FINE. IM SURE. I`LL SHOUT AT MY SELF LATER OR WHATEVER. AND SO JUST AS I PULL OUT OF THE SUB ALLEY INTO THE ACTUAL ALLEY MY POCKET STARTS BUZZING AND OH LOOK ITS MY TROLLIAN PAGER, PROBABLY FUTURE-ME SWEARING HE HAS FOUND THE SOLUTION TO ALL MY PROBLEMS BUT NO THERE YOUR PROBLEMS SHITMITTENS, I AM FINE AND DANDY RIGHT NOW, HE CAN GET HIS OWN ASS OUT OF THE FIRE. ANYWAY I STOP THINKING ABOUT THAT BECAUSE OH MY GOD THE BAR JUST EXPLODED THERES GLASS FROM MY BACK WINDSCREEN IN MY HAIR OH GOD THEIR GOES MY JOB MAYBIE. I GUESS I`LL TRY NOT TO HIT ANYONE ON THE WAY HOME. MAYBIE. OR AT LEAST ONLY PEOPLE WHO LOOK LIKE THEY HAVE SHITTY LAWYERS. AND OH GOD SCREAMING TIME TO DRIVE BEFORE I HAVE INCRIMINATING EVIDENCE, IT WAS JUST A GAS EXPLOSION RIGHT. OVEREXITED FIRE WORK IN STEAMY, SWEATY BLACKROM AFFAIR WITH GAS MAIN, NEWS AT ELEVEN FUCKASS. I SWITCH ON MY SIREN *BEEP* *BEEP* MEYOW GET OUT OF MY WAY. TIME TO GO TO WORK.

I post...and everyone leaves. Wonderful

[Megafire]

Thijs: Enter, the 21st chapter of Homesick is now up on AO3.

[ASBusinessMagnet]

Have a deliberately horribly written fanfic for a change!

ASBM. They're called "troll fics".

That's not how things work in MSPA fandom, sorry.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1...-WHlE-sos/edit

[Grand Mal]

The journal of one future pirate queen, chapter four.

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Log of Captain John Paul “Problem” Sleuth, June the Thirtieth:

It is with a lead heart and a throat burning with the whisky of righteous determination that I declare the withdrawal of a third of my hardboiled troops from G4. We are doing this man, we are making this happen. We are chasing after that hoodlum gravestuffer Noir, and HQ can’t say nothin’ against it. It was HQ’s idea, but that’s not the point.

I’ve got Commanders Inspector and Dick runnin’ things back at the base. I can only hope the two know they are as hard-boiled as yours truly. It would be a shame if anyone, even them own selves, caught wind of any underestimation. I am so, so proud of them, ‘swat I’m sayin’.

Ensigns Lalonde, Strider, Egbert, and Harley are all coming along, of course, as well as Junior Lt. Vagabond, Lt. Mendicant, and Lt. Commander Renegade. The lower ranks I can’t remember off the top of my head, but they’re all the cream of the crop, the cusp of the stuff, the dander off the top of the cat, the prime pickle brine, you catch my drift? You don’t? Yer a piece of paper, what do I care? It’s not like you can judge.

So, Rose reckons she’s picked up some good leads on the spade scoundrel, and we should be able to corner the midnight pirates in the Mangroves before they can start their return trip to the New World. See how I didn’t give their name the honor of caps? That’s how a real Sleuth roles.

Big News of the Mermaid Princess’ rescue and re-napping has reached this humble office, and I like it no better than sixty ingrown toenails. The story’s got more holes than a guy on death row after I’m through with him. First of all, the putz in the paper says Captain Karkata Vantas is responsible for this major turnaround. That doesn’t add up. I fought the guy, one on one (got away only by the skin of his teeth, I might add), and he ain’t the kidnappin’ type. I see that in a guys’ face, what kind of pirate they is. It’s a gift only the so-hard-boiled-they-absorbed-all-the-water-in-the-bleedin’-pan can attest to. Let me tell you, Vantas ain’t the kind to abscond without an immediate ransom notice, just too f_in’ impatient. And the most important thing- he might be feckless, but he ain’t an idiot. He’s not gonna kidnap someone like the goddamn Mermaid Princess without, at the very least, an armada to back the crime up. The brat’s got this weird balance between reckless and rational that I’ve only seen in people like Whitebeard. It’ll make him hard to catch.

Maybe she joined the crew willingly? Naw, that’s stupid. Stupid stupid dumb. Why did that even occur to me? I must be hitting the candy corn too hard. But whatever happened, the press must have just laid the blame on the nearest Supernova. Or... there could be a conspiracy intact. Hot damn, I love those. If conspiracies were a dame, then she and mystery would be my most contested of lovers. I’m gonna finish this entry to stop the metaphor from stretchin’ too thin, like it usally does, but one this is sure- if I wasn’t trailin’ after Noir, gettin’ assigned this case would be my prime objective.

Log of notorious ex-Shichibukai, Captain Jack “Spades Slick” Noir, July the Second:

I don’t got no conviction pillagin’ an abandoned guano-splattered rock out in the calm belt. Most seadogs don’t. But when it has your protege cornered by some one-man blueblood army, your priorities go askew.

We got wind of the brat’s sitch a couple days ago, while we were in sabaody, aimin’ to Slaughter a couple Subernova’s, but Vantas sent us a snail, and it occurs to me I owe the runt a favor. So before you know it, sentiment, and a happy helping of pleadin' Deuce (F_ that guy), has sent us off course into the new world. I tell ya, this is why Droog is threatening to mutiny, in that smooth-as-freshwater passive-agressive way of his.

Next time Vantas needs a leg up, he’d better not expect it from me.

So, reviews? Criticisms and whatnot? Much appreciated, if so.

[researcherWisemon]

Based on a true event, of sorts.

Paradox Kitten: 1/2 Spoonkind.

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In the new-and-improved Strider House-hold there was one tradition that you, a Dave Strider of an unimportant timeline, had managed to bring home from your old Pre-Scratch world:

And that was the importance of Coin-Flipping for Dishes duty.

Of course, with three of you now living under one house, you took it upon yourself to invest in a more... Multiply-able choice of paradoxifying.

Namely, a nine sided Dice that had come from Vriska's (and John's) vast D-N-D collection. They certainly weren't going to be using it, since particular nine-sided dice was made out of a garish purple plastic.

Now-a-days, what happened was very simple- You threw the dice high and wide, and waited to see where the thing landed. Whoever's pre-determined number (Evenly split between three points) was closest to the face-up number had to do the dishes.

And tonight it was your turn to do the dishes.

Nepeta had cooked, and what a delicious meal it was-- Over four pounds of baked cheese spiral pasta noodles with chicken chunks and some delectable sauce on the side.

Sure, it was good...But she ended up using three pans! Just a tad over-enthusiastic over learning a single dish, you think.

"Oh well." you sigh, and take out a big ol' plastic spoon ladle thing that had been used to pull the pasta out of the pan and onto your plates during dinner. It was a good thing the cheese hadn't burnt, or else you'd be stuck with a hard as a brick mess that wouldn't go in the left-over boxes very well.

You stick the spoon into the still very soft, gooey, and warm pasta and...

snop.

The plastic handle breaks nearly clean across the middle the moment you apply the tiniest bit of pressure.

You are so surprised that the Pesterchum application in your shades registers it as an exclamation mark.

You stare at the fragment of handle in your hand with a wry look that goes unnoticed by your shades.

"You okay back there?" You hear your brother-- Dirk Strider-- ask from the other room.

"Nah." You reply. "All's good." Then you turn your attention to the handle stuck in the gooey mess before you. "Um. Where did we get this spoon from again?"

"Jane gave it to me for being a good student at cooking class." Nepeta replied in his stead. "Why?"

"No reason." You say back as you bring the broken handle up to your eyes for inspection.

Somehow, you think John had something to do with this.

...

After scooping the rest of dinner into their new boxes with half a spoon, you pick up the remains of the utensil and do a quick time jump into the past as a future you jumps back in at that exact moment.

Being a Knight of Time has it's perks like that.

In any case, you warped over to the Eggbert residence with a mission, holding both halves of the spoon in one hand.

You take a moment to adjust your shades, and then knock once.

After a few moments, John opens the door. "Dave! What brings you over to this side of town?"

You hold up the broken utensil and wryly ask. "Look familiar, Eggbert?"

"Is that Dave?" you hear Vriska ask from somewhere inside the house. "HAH! I told you that wasn't going to work!"

At the combined look of shock and dismay on the boys face, all you can do is smirk outwardly, while also frowning inwardly. "Busted Eggbert."

"Hey hey..." He takes a step outside and closes the door behind him- as he does so you catch a brief flash of red through the narrowing crack in the door. "Now let's be reasonable, Dave..." he held up his hands apologetically. "It's just a joke!"

"What? Did you alchemize it with a knife or something just so it would break the moment I tried using it?"

Ah. The double look of shock behind those square framed glasses. Double busted Eggbert. Double. Busted.

Time to negotiate.

...

"Now then, since I'd rather not make Nepeta sad by having broken her spoon." you hold the utensil up. "What's the captcha code for the unbroken spoon?"

The Prankster mumbles something.

"What was that?"

"Capital XKZ, small h, Four, Two, small b, Eight"

"Thank you." And with that, you pass the broken spoon over before walking away.

After a few feet, you hear John messing with the doorknob- Locked. "Damn it! I locked myself out again!"

Correction, John. You locked him out.

The prankster's gambit rises in your favor.

...

After some quick time travel looping, you return to the moment you left and place a freshly alchemized spoon down on the counter. "Done." You say as you waltz into the front room for some quality TV time.

...

Several days later, the spoon breaks again. This time, you weren't holding it.

Nobody was.

The thing just snapped of it's own accord a whole ten minutes after Nepeta had put it down on the counter to dry off.

The exact same spot too.

"Damn it Eggbert." You grumble as you watch the Prankster's Gambit meter plummet back into John's favor.

You know it's him this time for sure, however, because he's pestering you with un-ending lines of laughter-- Vriska too.

Damn it. Know what? You're just going to keep the thing this time. Pretend the thing didn't even break.

Maybe you'll re-gift it come Christmas time?

Nah.

Truth in fiction: The spoon mom was using to dig fried potatoes out of the pan the other night just Snapped at the slightest pressure. All I could think of was "1/2 Spoonkind!" >_<;

Anyways, so trying to translate this into something Dave could experience, I thought... Well, the 1/2 swordkind strife card he has adjusts things to fit into it, so maybe the spoon had a sword alchemized with it?

Well, who else would prank him but John?

I can kind of imagine them settling down into a sort of...Prank war of sorts, after everything was all said and done.

Passive aggressive like.

*shrug*

[Chirijiradin]

So...I made a fic. Although, it's absolute crack. Most of them are going to be stand alone one shots of random, while others will be mini arcs of WTF. If you're interested, here's the first bit.

Sopor Addled Trolls

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Be the Coolkid:

"…Dear fuck, this place is dull."

"Dave, you have an Iphone. There has to be something to keep you occupied for more than five minutes."

Dave opened his mouth to say something, but his purple eyed ectosister beat him to it,

"And tormenting Karakt into another bout of frothing at the mouth is not acceptable"

"Geez, way to ruin my fun, Lalonde. That's like the only thing worth doing anymore…"

Sighing, he pulled the Iphone out of his sylladex, as well as a pair of clunky as all hell headphones. Rose simply raised an eyebrow at the archaic piece of crap he called headphones.

"Hey. Quit eyeing my choice 'phones, Lalonde. Don't you know? Vintage is the shit."

"I think you mean vintage is shit, but whatever you say, Strider."

Responding with a simple one fingered salute (Three guesses which finger. The first two don't count), the self-proclaimed Coolkid sauntered off to the transportalizer, and shortly arrived at his destination. The most out of reach place on this entire desolate rock. Dave plopped down, Iphone in hand, and putting the unrionically shitty headphones back into his sylladex. So far down here, nobody would really be able to hear his music.

Setting his volume to the absolute maximum, he started the last song he was on, only a few seconds left on the track.

"Oh hell yes."

And so the next song started.

Be Someone Else:

You are now Gamzee Makara, and you are currently listening to one of the most absolutely miraculous things to grace your presence.

"You've got a real type of thing going down, getting down, there's a whole lot of rhythm going round…"

Eyes widening to almost comical proportions, he started to walk in an almost hypnotized fashion towards the…the…what the motherfuck even is that glorious noise?

"You've got a real type of thing going down, getting down, there's a whole lot of rhythm going round…"

You peek around the corner, sure you've fond the music's source and…aw, hell. It's that motherfucker.

"Ow, we want the funk, Give up the funk, Ow, we need the funk, We gotta have that funk, Ow we want the funk, Give up the funk, Ow we need the funk, gotta have that funk.

…Fuck it. Totally worth being seen if you can chill to that divine noise.

"You know, you could just ask to listen instead of trying to be a ninja or some shit. Because trust me, man. You make an absolutely shitty ninja."

…MOTHERFUCK.

Be the Coolkid again:

Damn straight you want to be the Coolkid again, can't get enough of that magnificent bastard.

Taking a second to pause the song, you roll your eyes behind your tight as all hell shades, and say

"Come on, get your ass out here. I'm not starting this piece of awesome until you do."

Shuffling slowly form behind corner came that crazy juggalo.

Well shit.

You're still not sure if he's going to pull a majestic fucking pirouette off the handle, so you put your strife specibus to an easily accessible position. Because you really don't feel like dying. Especially having to explain to Saint Peter how you got there.

You can see it now…

"So son, how'd you die?"

"Got murdered by a crazy alien juggalo for dissing his fucked up clown religion."

"…Huh. Well, looks like you're going to hell."

"Alright, peace."

Oh, right he's just kinda staring at you. Dear Gog, you have making extended mataphors in your internal monologue, nobody can hear the sheer epicness flow like a waterfall of wisdom and irony-

"Uh…you gonna play that wicked sweet noise again, bro?"

…Shit. You did it again- Wait. WAIT A FUCKING SECOND.

"Did you just call this…NOISE?"

No.

Hell no.

HELL FUCKING NO.

Nobody disses the funk. Fucking NOBODY.

Your name is Dave Strider. You have a wide variety of INTERESTS, including MAKING ILL BEATS, IRONIC HUMOR, among other things. You have a PASSION for MUSIC, some for ironic purposes, but some because you LOVE THE SHIT OUT OF THEM. FUNK is one of those genres you LOVE UNCONDITIONALLY. Because SPACE PIMPS FROM PLANET SWAG is seriously the best thing ever.