#Do NOT like when people insult or gossip or talk about how crazy homeless people are

[downfallofi]

Im all partied out after the last two days 🙃

[beebzly]

I’ve been sitting on these head cannons for a while, not really sure why. Some of them are more thought out than others, guess that’s why I haven’t felt ready to publish them, but I don’t think I’ll ever find the time to fine tune them so I’m just going to throw them out here.

These are “scandal” head cannons for if the Gorillaz were real people, except for the first one about 2D, which is just a nice thought imo lol.

Anyway, here they are.

-2D got into producing during the bands hiatus between getting back from his not-so deserted island experience and Humanz. He’s now a very sought after indie music producer. Won an independent Grammy in 2019 for producer of the year. He loves to do it because it gives him a sense of purpose outside of Gorillaz and helping out up and coming music acts is extremely fulfilling to him. He also loves to collaborate outside of Gorillaz. Bands will seek out his unique vocals for back up singing and occasional covers of other songs.

-2D has embarrassing memory lapses brought on my his head trauma and pill abuse that gossip rags always love to print about. He’s been known to be found peeing on the sides of buildings, ragging on and insulting strangers on the streets or crashing other people’s weddings or parties. He often comes to and can’t remember how or why he ended up there.

-Murdoc has had several write ups over the years for being an abusive boyfriend. He keeps luring women and the occasional man around only to get belligerent with them and start loud, over the top fights that draw crowds. The Daily Mail publishes every piece sent in about him, regardless of if it’s true. Occasionally the stories have a leg to stand on but mostly it’s conjecture from “anonymous sources”. In these times, 2D will always stand up for him, prompting the DM to start the rumors that he has Stockholm Syndrome, a rumor that has the power to send 2D into tirades. Occasionally he’ll be so high out of mind that he’ll go off on nonsense tangents about Murdoc and how these people are just after attention cause he’s famous and that the abuse he’s endured was never “that bad” even though there’s interviews and evidence pointing to the opposite.

-Speaking of The Daily Mail, the love to constantly speculate over the status of 2D and Murdoc’s relationship. Over the passed 20or so years, they’ve been the only publication to run actual compromising pictures of them together

-Noodle has a reputation for getting shit faced out at club and god forbid she’s out with Murdoc. They enable each other to drink more and more. Noodle gets Like embarrassingly falling over drunk and saying wild ass shit. Most of the time though she’s caught shouting in Japanese at paps and autograph seekers. It’s gotten so bad in more recent years that Noodle is starting receive bans from a few of the same nightclubs Murdoc already can’t get into.

-Russel had a reputation in the early 2000s for being caught talking to himself. It became a crazy obsession in the media for a few years, who was going to catch Russel staring at walls muttering to himself and also causing a lot of speculation as to the nature of his relationship with Del while he was alive. Occasionally those times would devolve into him looking spun out an homeless especially after Dels exorcism. He would still chatter like he was there but really he’d just gone mad. Took an extended break as a posh recovery center after the events of plastic beach, his captive stay in North Korea triggered his muttering again.

-Russel is a secret hacker, but for Robin Hood do goodings. Likes to hack into databases to wipe people’s debts or give kids lunch money for school. Almost got caught once leaving a campus getting recognized but managed to bribe the student with an autograph.

-Russ has also been caught buying black market, endangered animals for his Frankenstein-taxidermy. Getting deeper into his hobby, he wanted make the ultimate endangered animal. He claims he didn’t see anything wrong with him, since he was technically preserving the animals and they were already dead when he bought them.

-To that point, his room smells awful. Like fermeldahide and death. Also Murdoc likes to take dips of said fermeldahide to make whet joints to take on adventures. Which usually end up in him tripping his balls off.

-Noodle has mpd. She has triggers for her alters that over the years she’s able to keep controlled but in her teens especially she’d get caught out in public claiming to be someone else and dressing the part. Her alters stem from the abuse she endured as a child soldier. It’s a tactic used to make her a better assassin so her main Noodle personality won’t be able to recall the pain and horror she’s inflicted on people.

-Noodle likes to commit petty crimes for fun, and has been caught on camera several timesSometimes Murdoc will join her, but when they do, the crimes usually escalate beyond petty. The most fun they’ve had together is hot wiring random cars and taking them for joy rides. They always try to return them but usually forget where they came from.

-Murdoc still gets the itch to commit arson from time to time and usually finds old abandoned homes or factories to light up. He’s been arrested for a few but there’s never enough evidence to nail him for the crimes, he’s gotten too good at it.

-Murdoc has several off shore bank accounts and shell corporations. They’ve been talked about in the press marginally but no one really knows what they’re for or where he gets all that money or what he needs it for. “And you never will,” he says, no doubt.

[violetsystems]

#personal

It’s been getting hard to keep track of all the misfortune lately on a microscopic level.  This isn’t to say there’s some miniature secret world plotting against me or something.  Maybe it is really the muons at work.  Maybe it’s just people being collectively disrespectful.  If anything is for sure, people out here in America act in groups more often than not.  In Chicago, it’s easier to paint the picture because of a little known characteristic of my city called “corruption.”  You are made to think you are the problem.  That you aren’t following the rules.  These rules aren’t things you can actually follow like tax law or anything.  If anything my taxes this year extended my time to wait all of this out.  But I’ve been waiting all this out for over two decades essentially.  I was reminded of this yesterday shopping downtown when I wandered past my ex girlfriend.  I haven’t spoken to this person for years.  Never would speak to this person.  I’ve run into my car in the neighborhood when I’m on the wrong side of it.  The car I gave up to walk away and never look back over a decade ago.  I’ve been suggested her as a connection on LinkedIn more than once.  Sometimes through an email at 4:20 in the morning from the service.  For whatever reason the Earth’s magnetic poles lead sharks like me around the city with no plan, I sure run into a lot of people.  This is while spending about 11 months completely alone aside from run ins with goods and services.  I occasionally nod to my neighbors.  The landlord installed a new lock on the front gate which is left unlocked most of the time.  I had a package stolen again a couple of weeks ago.  We didn’t talk about it.  It just seems coincidental that now we have a lock.  It’s not the first time I’ve had my packages disappear.  It’s not the first time for anything in this city.  And again it’s not the first time I’ve seen my ex in passing scowling back at me.  She wasn’t wearing a mask.  Thankfully I was.  I’ve given up trying to explain this to anybody but the internet.  And even in that, this site is theoretically dead to most people in mainstream society much like me.  Gaslighting is tied to a myriad of behaviors that people use to exert control.  Think of all the shitty men out there who neg women to groom, shape and mold them into liking them.  Think of this done in collective way.  Like a mob.  Or a commune.  Whatever you call it, it’s not something you can actively fight against yourself.  Sure I have this online outlet.  But most of us get at this point that I’m not looking to connect with mainstream society after being exiled from it like it was a cult.  Typical cult behavior is to alienate and isolate the victim.  Kind of like the army.  You break down someone’s resolve to the point where they have no choice to give up and accept the way.  That this is your home.  This is your path.  This is your destiny.  That this is all you are worth.  That you are being unreasonable thinking there’s anything wrong.  That you should just give up and assimilate to the group.  Except in my case, there’s no option or way forward.  If my self confidence were lower or my bank account far less liquid I’d be on the ropes by now.  And yet things just keep getting worse when it comes to what this city projects at me.  It’s completely full of shit and not even remotely concerned in hiding it.  I could never prove any of this behavior towards me is organized.  So I don’t.  I don’t waste my time other than writing it out on the internet to show I’m not crazy.  But the city is against me at every step outside my locked gate.  Inside my rent is paid and I have a silent agreement at best.  At least I can be trusted to keep a secret.

Trust is something that can’t be recovered with mere words.  I’ve known for awhile I’ve been held to a completely different standard.  It’s hard to quantify.  As much as I’d like to think this is a dead site, I know those very same people stalk every word I say.  It’s a fucked up situation that just keeps getting deeper into a hole no one can crawl out of.  I’ve spent my time being vague and cautious.  I’ve focused more on my fiscal health through this which is better than it has ever been.  Sans identity theft ever few weeks.  This is a reality that I live that has gone way beyond a line of normalcy.  I’m supposed to just sit here mothballed, exiled and benched.  I’m supposed to sit here and take it while people watch on some scary collective level.  I’m not too paranoid about anything.  Honestly I’m the least paranoid I’ve ever been.  I’m just simply bored with the inefficiency of it all.  You really want to sit here and tell me that it’s my fault.  That it’s about me “getting out there” and getting “out of my comfort zone” when I spent years travelling by myself to Asia, New York and as far as New Zealand.  These are journeys I’ve written about at the level of a fifth grade writing teacher.  And still nobody can bother to accept that I’ve been around the block more than once.  It’s as if I don’t matter unless I reach out to someone.  Which I have for years on this platform.  I’m comfortable with that.  To be this invisible after all the shit I talk is a mindfuck.  I wonder why I even talk shit at all anymore.  I wonder why I don’t just wall myself up in my apartment and never see the light of day.  I wonder a lot of things.  I wonder how deep this pain will get over time.  I wonder why people think this is completely normal to put a person through what I’ve been through.  What does this prove exactly?  To me it proves that I am worth it.  And self confidence in this situation is the biggest mother fucker there is.  Because everyone would rather resort to chipping away at your defenses than getting to know who you really are.  I’d be more bothered if I cared about it.  But we are in the middle of a crisis.  I have been quarantined and isolated from everything alone.  I have been followed, gossiped about, threatened, and intimidated most every day of the week for over a year.  I don’t really care.  I have reached a limit in which I constantly feel like telling the world to fuck off.  I have spent years rattling away paragraphs that are harvested by some future algorithm to mine for some tortured sitcom version of Tenet.  What the fuck is really going on here?  I couldn’t ever tell you.  None of how this has played out for me makes any bit of sense.  I have nowhere to go.  I have nothing to do.  I have skills that are invisible.  I have a professional network that pretends I’m not alive.  I get winks and secret stares like I’m not in on some joke.  That I’m outside whatever privileged simulation the rest of this city enjoys.  I’ve given up trying to explain it.  I never want to explain it.  I never want to look back at all these sorry ass glances.  I live in a city that plays by its own lawless rules and expects you to bow down and kiss it’s scrubby ass feet.  While walking back to the train the other day I took the long way under the metra tracks.  There’s a ton of homeless people living in tents.  I walked past and an arm stuck out from one with a needle in the other hand.  This tattooed motherfucker literally just shot up in front of me.  Like it was some sick expression of freedom.  This country is fucked up.  This city is even worse.  And people think like I’m living some charmed, bargain basement life.  Like it’s cool to be poor.  Like it’s divine to suffer and struggle so that the rest of these people can pretend it never happened.  This is real life in Chicago.  Home of the free and land of the gaslighted.

I don’t know what to say or do anymore.  I know this is some sort of epilogue.  That it really doesn’t matter.  I’m going to spend an entire summer alone again.  Just to prove a point.  Then come September I’m going to have to make the decision to leave.  There are no answers.  No opportunities.  Nobody who wants to see this all happen to me and point a finger back at society.  I’m not tortured enough.  I’m not part of some community other than a dead website people make fun of.  I don’t have a fucking future here.  I get scammed.  I get conned.  I get catfished looking for jobs.  I get sidelined.  I get benched.  I get picked over.  And I get it.  If we really look at the way the entertainment industry and the media work everyone pays attention to two week cycles.  In the last two weeks, people have copied every single idea and claimed it their own.  Just like the two weeks before that.  People make it all about them and forget what inspired them.  And people move on to the next thing to consume.  They have no focus.  They churn around trying to be like everyone else and become more the same.  I’ve been a musician.  I’ve been a rapper.  I’ve been host.  I’ve been a commentator.  I’ve been a writer.  I’ve been a lot of things.  And I’m still completely invisible except even more so.  It’s like a joke to some people.  They get off on cucking me in front of my face.  Like they’re so much better at expressing their freedom than me.  These people are toxic and inefficient as fuck.  You can’t express freedom in one breath at the expense of somebody else’s.  You cannot do that in an organized mob like fashion on the internet.  If you do, the DOJ will find you.  And you will need a fucking lawyer.  And this is what I tell myself when I get really mad.  That I will have the last laugh.  That I will be able to wait it out.  That things will have changed after July 4th when the city reopens.  We can all laugh and dance the pain away.  We can all conveniently ignore the shady bullshit that I experienced up front and center.  This is a dangerous reality.  That after July it will be a year since I was let go.  A year of being invisible taking care of my own shit.  A year of me telling you I told you so only to be gossiped behind my back like I’m crazy.  I’m ok with walking away from all this shit and starting over.  I already did that.  It’s a fucking insult I live every day people thinking they know everything about me and never even asking my fucking name.  And yet I don’t really care.  It’s not worth my fucking time to care anymore.  I don’t exactly know the way forward.  I’m trapped in a situation that would make normal people’s eyes bleed.  I write here out of frustration knowing full well it’s not something I control.  I can’t do anything about this.  So I figure out ways to pass the time like I’m in some sort of jail.  Does it matter?  On a small level yes.  I do understand that there are people out there that care about me equally as much.  This is why I stay down here.  A joke.  Anonymous proof that everyone is pretty much full of shit when they talk about me behind my back.  And yet it gets worse.  Who did I piss off?  I don’t mind that I did.  I’m kind of proud actually.  Because if I pissed you off being me it means I got under your skin.  It means ultimately I’m better than you can ever be.  And you’ll tear your own skin off trying to live in the shadow of mine.  Nobody can ever be me.  Nobody can ever copy my shit and be authentic.  This is what we need to focus on.  Authenticity.  For all the shit people talk about me, I don’t need to say a word.  You can make fun of me in front of your coworkers or friends at the bar.  Somebody will always be in the shadows listening to your bullshit.  And your bullshit is so obvious these days.  I have no choice but to wait it out and watch you eat the shit you’ve been shoveling for decades.  How I’m going to do that should be obvious by now.  Nothing has changed.  Everything else is a secret.  <3 Tim

[nihilisticism]

sábado gigante

Sometimes I think it’s hard to look at the women on TV in the bright orange bikinis with the dark brown beads spinning wild like suns out of orbit. There’s something about Univisión, I don’t know, everything on the channel is very saturated – the colors, the bad acting, the dirty jokes.

Corona in hand, smelling of wet paint, Pipo is singing along to the rhythm of clanging dishes being washed in the kitchen.

My grandmother’s voice cuts through the cover of a song I am hearing for the first time.

“Estás mirando las mujeres esas bailando en cueras con las tetas afuera? Take that shit off. You’re going to turn her into a slut or, worse, a lesbian.”

 “En esta casa, we don’t say that word.”

“Do what you want. I’m not watching you ruin another girl.”

I can’t imagine my grandfather ruining any girl, but he doesn’t have anything else to say. Mima storms out and I follow her out to the marble steps I grew up on, watching her breathe smoke into the humid night. I can smell the tar build up in both of our lungs, but I like it, somehow. I’m pretty sure the only time Mima isn’t talking was when she had a cigarette in her mouth.

 “Don’t ever pick up a cigar,” she says, flicking the ash off the end of her cigarette. “It’s the beginning of the end. You’re turning ten in a month, right? I started smoking when I was just a little older than you are, and I’ve been dying ever since.”

I watch as the smoke swirls off like a dragon in the distance, and I listen for years.

  “But things were different,” she says, and I am twelve. “I started working when I was younger than you, had a family to support. I’ve never not been anxious. You watch out for that. It’s swirling in your blood, mi princesa. And the moment you give in to it, it’s over.”

I don’t like the idea of anything swirling in my blood. I shudder.

  “You’re telling me you’ve never thought a single boy in your class is cute? No te creo. But, I guess, you’ll have time to fall in love.”

Mami said not to tell her about how Rocío stayed the night last week, and especially not that she stayed in my bed. I don’t tell anyone that the first dream I had when I turned fifteen was about the curve of her legs against mine.

  “You’re better off without him,” she said when I broke up with my boyfriend. I never told her why. She’s traded her cigarette for a doctor’s note, threatening her with another hospitalization if she keeps smoking. “You’ll find a better man in college, one who deserves you, you’ll see.”

  My phone lights up in my hand, buzzes.

“Who’s that?”

“Una amiga.” I turn off the screen before she notices the kiss emojis that trail after a pretty stranger’s name.

Something aches inside me, something I have only recently been able to name. Phantom pains of an aunt I will never know, forgotten on the island my family fled, a curse of that ruined woman whispered behind my back for years, la mujer esa con la novia, don’t talk about her in front of la nena, are you crazy? There are enough lesbians in this family.

Without ever knowing her, without ever knowing of her, I wonder if she is happy.

  Right on schedule, la vieja de la calle passes by. We hear her before we see her, screaming profanity in English in the middle of the sideroad that separates our yard from the public park. She is a fact of life, and my grandmother, as she does with all facts of life, pulls me aside and starts gossiping about her under her breath.

              “Pobrecita, la loca esa, do you think she’s homeless? She’s too clean to be but still, here she is, screaming at the people on the street como si fuera nada.”

Though there is no way for the woman to know I am here, almost a half-block away, she seems to turn to me. Her eyes lock with mine and see nothing. “I can smell the lesbian on you,” she says. “It reeks like a fucking disease.”

              And my grandmother is screaming, screaming in a language the woman cannot understand, “Lesbian? Lesbian? No one calls mi princesa a lesbian, who do you think you are?” And I try to think it’s sweet, I really do, but it is easier to laugh at a stranger’s mechanical recitation of homophobic rhetoric than to think about how the worst insult imaginable to my grandmother is the idea that I may not marry a man.

“Go inside, mi amor. Let me handle this.”

[lachalaine]

&& between heaven and hell (assassin au)

In coordination with the verses of @naenqdam & @proxiist , this verse explores an alternate reality of what it would look like if Jackie had never truly been able to leave her past self behind. warning for rape, torture and murder below the cut. please skip if needed.

It follows roughly along the same lines as her main verse, wherein she’s left her ex behind and has started a new life as a music producer, just trying to get back in touch with what she’d once left behind before all the shit had blown up. 

And so far she’s done well, remarkably well even, that it should be enough for her to settle into her new role with nothing more but a sense of accomplishment and a further drive to succeed. She has her new life, built it up from scratch – far away from past lover and her list of contracted kills – far away from pretending she has no guilt. And she shouldn’t miss it. She doesn’t want to. The pain of that life had been far too much for her to bear should have been thrown under a bridge and forgotten. But that’s where this verse diverges.

She does miss it, and that’s the problem.

A taste of power was all she’d needed.

She tries to ignore it, the lingering darkness brewing beneath her skin. She attempts to drown it out, with music and work and sleep, sleep, sleep. But it’s in her dreams, and it awakens every time she has a slight moment of peace.

There is an urge for something dark within her just begging to be let out, to run rampant on the city streets and take the most worthless of its inhabitants down into the depths, so they could at least be used to feed a hunger she didn’t know she’d possessed. Maybe then it wouldn’t get so loud. Maybe then – she wouldn’t be so violent, so emotional, so unstable. Maybe then, maybe she could have just one clear moment of peace, please.

But she cringes away from it, tells herself to ignore the bad thoughts that threaten to make her sick. Because she doesn’t want it, she’s certain. Not the blood, not the guilt.

Not the secrets.

She’s not meant for that kind of life. And she’s not that kind of girl. She’s not, not, not, not, not –

But then that changes.

One stormy night, a friend is found – floating in the river. A homeless girl, age sixteen. Jackie had met her a few times while she’d worked at the local 7-11. She’d slept in the back while she was off her shift, in a supply closet that her managers had been kind enough to let her have. Saving up her cash so she could make it to America and make it big in Hollywood, so she could walk on all the red carpets for all the biggest premiers.

Her name had been Kana.

Found raped. Drugged. Murdered.

Tortured even, to add further insult to injury.

There is a smile on her face, etched into her skin by a knife. Serrated blade, the doctors had said; a possible rendition of the Joker. It’d seemed like the sick fucker had gotten creative.

But there was no evidence. And there was no suspected culprit. And thus, there would be no justice.

The police force – though she’d know they’d tried their best – she couldn’t help but feel like sometimes, sometimes – it was a real fucking joke.

And she’d known that, felt it that day at the funeral, on a day which had felt like one of the darkest in a long time. Jackie had gone so very numb at that point, that she’d apparently forgotten how to cry that day. She’d apologized to Kana, bent at her grave after the guests had finally left, whispering her prayers even as the deluge of rain had soaked through her hair.

She didn’t know if she’d be forgiven for that, but she’d gain her apology another way.

Because right after that, the murders had started. All homeless. Not all women. And not all young. All with a smile carved into their face. Someone was ridding the city of the less fortunate, and the police were – for lack of a better term – utterly useless.

How could she have possibly ignored that?

So she’d taken up sleuthing the crime scenes when she’d could, hacking into nearby cameras and following leads, searching for evidence where the police hadn’t. It’d helped that she was so well known in the underground scene.

It made information so much easier to get a hold of.

A few months of digging later found her tagging a few renowned drug rings as the main connections to the series of deaths, all headed by one man that’d apparently never even been caught in a mere photograph. She’d had his initials – H.K. – but that was it. Getting any more in depth would be risky, and she needed more connections that this.

Then, rumors of the organization had popped up. Underground and in the dark webs. Gossip whispered along dark corridors, or passed off as drunken ramble. It was an urban legend. Tall tales. Crazy talk.

On a whim, she’d taken notice. Started watching. Tracking. Just as intently as she had the murders. And finally – after what’d seemed like forever, had eventually found a trend.

Apparently, there was more to the rumors than most people would have thought. Though their actions did seem to be somewhat… contradicting, there was no doubt that they seemed to be doing it for the right reasons. They’d seemed to be a fairly bigger group as well, meaning their resources and contacts would be more abundant than if she were to work on her own.

If she was right, they’d find her new target as one of particular interest to their goals as well.

So she’d made contact, and before long – had received the requirements to join.

Blow up a building? She’d known just the place.

Guilt had not been in her vocabulary the evening she’d set up those explosives. It hadn’t even crossed her mind. Instead, she was running purely by what perverse ideas the darkness in her mind had whispered to her throughout the last few months, focusing on the numbness, on the self-satisfied feeling of vengeance that’d flooded through her when those charges had gone off in the building a few buildings across from where she’d stood.

There was no need to worry. The men converging in that building had all been rich men with a history of pedophilia and the like, left to walk around free after some underhanded bribery. It’d been easy enough to lure them all in, with a few well-placed invitations here and there. Hell, she’d even made sure the janitors had left for the night. They were small fry, all things considered – so it was easy, but still all the most satisfying.

That was one thing she’d have to thank Garry for at least.

She knew how to make a strong statement.

As she’d hoped, she’d passed their little test, and as such had gone through her training – once again finding her strength and prowess in all the talents that’d felt natural to her but hadn’t been able to practice in what’d seemed like too damn long.

Eventually, she’d learned how to be one of them, settling into the role with an ease that scares her; in the few times she’s shaken herself out of whatever cloying stupor she’d fallen into with doing this kind of work again. The guilt has eased somewhat on her part however, knowing that those she takes down now are some of the worst scum on earth. It feels somewhat reminiscent of her old life, though with another kind of darkness still very much prevalent – just far easier to deal with.

It’s when you convince yourself you’re that doling out justice that it makes it all that much easier to sleep at night.

On her own, she works as both assassin and spy, and sometimes as mere backup to those partners who temporarily require a third member on their missions. Her marks that mark her as one of the organization are hidden along her body, with one interlaced with another tattoo to draw off suspicion if required. The O is along the inside of her wrist, connected by a thin band and feathers that comes off looking like nothing more than a permanent charm bracelet, whilst the X is about the size of her thumb and placed along the upper left side of her chest, settled just slightly above and right next to her beauty mark. You’d only be able to see that one if she wore a very low cut top, which she admittedly does a lot of the time – but it’s easy to write that one off as just another random tattoo.

Jackie takes on the smaller targets on a regular basis, which is just fine with her because it leaves her more room to move around after her kills; more room to investigate, and a higher chance of keeping her illegal activities silent. It makes it far easier to keep that part of her life separate from her career as well, so that she can do her part without necessarily getting tagged by too many of the big time crime rings for her efforts. Her activities sate her need for power, and rid the world of filth while she’s at it too. Otherwise a vigilante.

It also makes saving of innocent civilians caught in the fray much easier for her. Which the organization would severely frown upon, if they ever caught wind of it. So far however, she’s managed to keep her actions nigh untraceable, though the higher ups have started to notice quite a few things from watching their new recruit...

[scartale-an-undertale-au]

Papers of Homelessness - Chapter 25

(This banner had been made by the awesome and amazing artist @benteja​. i am so honored that she had drawn this banner for this story. please go and show her all the love in the world that she deserves!!! \[^o^]/)

BEFORE | NEXT

a/n: so sorry for not posting the chapter earlier. but i didn’t know i would not return home on sunday for my appointment, so i didn’t put the chapter on queue. well, so here it is. three days late.

You three finally calmed down enough to sit down for a meal of… instant ramen. Your eye twitched when you saw the amounts of boxes of instant noodles that the house had and had then realized that the reason why both Papyrus and Undyne suck at cooking was this.

You sighed and asked Alphys for the pantry or the vegetables. The blonde nodded and gestured for the fridge, explaining that Undyne bought those for her cooking lessons.

Yeah, no. Undyne wasn’t getting anywhere near vegetables. She doesn’t deserve to.

Well, time to cook for crazy people once more.

Fun…

You concluded from the tomatoes and garlic that Undyne had tried to make something… with tomatoes and garlic. Honestly, with Undyne, who knows?

So you took the noodles and quickly made a proper sauce, disheartened that there wasn’t anything more to use.

At least there was salt…

You felt insulted.

The two, when trying the noodles at first with skeptic expression, grew sparkly eyed and devoured the rest of the food. You sat there, grimacing at the slightly runny consistency with the noodles, but grinned amusingly as you heard their exclaims. It’s almost like they had never had a proper meal.

“You are telling me you never learned how to properly cook?” You raised a brow at the two.

Undyne turned red in indignation. “I do know how to cook, punk!”

Alphys nodded.

You snorted. “Explain it to my destroyed taste buds. I think I needed an extra shift just to get the taste out of my mouth.”

Undyne bristled and you quirked up a brow. “You do realize that I hate lying, right?”

Alphys placed a hand on her companion’s shoulder. “L-let’s not s-start fighting. H-he means well.”

Undyne glared at you and you glared back. After a long moment, she relented and went back to her food. You smirked in triumph and pushed away your plate, unable to stomach the food anymore, folding your arms.

Payback was sweet.

Soon the plates were thrown to the sink and you quickly washed them as a polite gratitude for using the place (your mom did teach you manners). Then Undyne, having fortunately forgotten the previous fight, dragged you back to the living room, where the couch was moved while you washed the dishes and several blankets in different colors were thrown on the floor. Alphys was sprawled over a giant puffy pink pillow, her chubby legs moving in a very anime-like manner.

You were starting to feel that you got dragged into something very… bad. You looked at the clock on top of the TV, seeing that it was already past eight. You should really get going—gah!

“Come on, stop running away!” Undyne’s big hand clasped over your shoulder and you sweatdropped. “We’re not that terrible!”

“I agree!” Alphys piped from her position. You sighed and made a mental note to avoid meeting those two ever again. Your social tolerance was dropping rapidly, nearing dangerous lows.

You three sat on the floor and you picked a green blanket, covering yourself with it, hoping it would defend you from the insanity of those two women.

“So now for the best part of sleepovers!” Undyne exclaimed and you did a take back, eyes widening to painful levels.

“Excuse me!?”

The bigger woman blinked and stared at you confusingly with her fist still in the air. “What?”

“Since when was this a sleepover?” You demanded. “I do have to go home at one point. Plus, I did not even agree to sleep here!”

The two women exchanged looks and then begun to laugh. You frowned, not happy with the laughter on your expense.

“Well, seems that we’ll have to start with the classics!” Undyne grinned mischievously and Alphys’ eyes sparkled.

That was no good. And you didn’t even agree!

“What… classics?” You dared to ask.

“Glad you asked! 20 questions or truth or dare!”

“What’s the point?”

“It’s… it’s to learn more about ea-each o-other…” Alphys explained and you mulled over the information before shrugging. If you’re stuck here, might as well learn something.

“Alright then. I guess I’ll go with the 20 questions. So what do you need to do?” The women suddenly wore matching grins and you shuddered.

You made a bad choice.

Alphys’ glasses gleamed as she rubbed her hands. “So, first question – full name and age.”

You raised a brow at the odd question. Well, it does seem like information gathering game. “Chara Dreemurr, twenty-one. You?”

“Alphys Eld, twenty-three.”

“Undyne Burna Eld, twenty-four.”

“You’re related?”

Undyne grinned. “That’s your second question?”

You nodded. The redhead laughed and hugged her companion and nuzzled the blond hair. “Nah, I just took Al’s name because we’re engaged!”

…

Wait, what?

You frowned in surprise. Two girls… they were both girls if you weren’t blind, engaged? That sounded just plain weird…

But to honest, you couldn’t say anything since you yourself are weird… psychopathic weird, or whatever the psychologist had called your abnormal behavior… something about obsession or compulsion… whatever. It still meant that you were in no place to judge.

You then noticed that the two were holding their breaths. You blinked yourself out of your stupor and shrugged. “Not my place to say anything. As long as you don’t ask me for advice.”

The two relaxed and smiled. Then Alphys asked. “Do you have anyone special to you?”

You hated your face. Undyne cheered while Alphys sulked and fished out a small paper and gave it to the redhead, her face bright red as well. Undyne cackled as she pocketed the paper.

“Do I want to know?”

“Nope!” Undyne happily said and slung an arm around your shoulders. You stiffened and pushed the arm off. Undyne cackled, not perturbed about your action. “So tell us about them!”

You sighed. “Frisk, she’s 20 as far as she knows.”

“Your coworker?” You nodded. “Oooh, forbidden love!”

“It’s not!” You fumed.

Alphys trembled excitedly. “What is she like?”

You scowled. “Isn’t it my turn to ask?”

“Oh, oops.”

“So, uh… what do the two of you do?” You asked a bit awkwardly.

Undyne started. “I’m actually just a guard for the mall nearby. Alphys is the awesome one.”

“U-Undyne…” Alphys blushed and fidgeted. “I’m still studying robotics and computers.”

You whistled. “That’s smart.”

“Right!? AND she also teach AND she sold her invention!” Undyne hugged the blonde. “That’s how smart my fiancé is!”

Alphys turned beet red. You felt new respect for the timid woman. Seems like those two are not to be underestimated despite first impressions.

“Our turn! What do you like about Frisk the most?”

“Since when did information gathering turned to gossip?” You inquired, but faced with the redhead’s smirk you gave in and scratched your hair, rocking yourself a bit. “Well, she’s crazily strong despite being a shorty. She’s also quiet. Not much like my boss, but close. She’s weird.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Pretty?” Well, she’s quite normal looking unless you count her eyes… “She’s normal.”

“Your face is blushing~”

Damn it.

“Man, you are really easy to fluster despite your all ‘I’m too cool to hang with you’ attitude!” Undyne laughed and you bristled.

“Well, is Alphys 'pretty’?” You shot back.

Undyne cackled. “Are you even trying?” She held the chubby woman and squashed their cheeks together. “She’s beautiful!”

Alphys was red but she also smiled happily. “Thank you, Undyne—”

“And my favorite part of her is when I fall asleep on her boobs!”

“Undyne!”

You agreed. Your ears burned as you looked away. “Too much information!”

“I bet your Frisk doesn’t have as big rack as my Alphys!”

“Why are we even discussing it!?” You nearly yelled, embarrassed. This is not something that you ever wanted to talk about!

“Huh, she doesn’t!”

“U-Undyne!”

Someone kill you.

And yet, despite your discomfort, a very cartoony picture of frisk’s back formed. She then turned and appeared to be holding two watermelons to her chest.

“Like this?”

You couldn’t help yourself. You began laughing at the image. Alphys and Undyne startled as you bent over, shaking from your hysterical laughter.

“Undyne…I think we broke him…”

“Oops?”

You heaved, trying to talk through the tears and laughter. “W-waterm-melons! W-why waterm-melons?”

The women stared.

“We broke him.”

“Not my fault.”

“Undyne!”

“Not. My. Fault.”

You decided to call it a night when you finally calmed down from your fit and so Undyne guided you to the bus station you usually took to return home. Thank god that the last bus comes at midnight so you weren’t worried about getting to the stop so late. Hopefully you’ll be home before nine-thirty.

"Thank you for hanging out with us,” Undyne started when you two got to the stop. “We don’t get visitors often unless it’s Papyrus or Alphys’ family.”

“How are you even friends? From what I figured, he’s much younger than you,” You raised a brow in curiosity. The two did seem like a compatible duo, with their extreme personalities. But not very likely to meet unless Undyne has any connection to the hospital or if Papyrus has any connection to the mall or the college.

“Well, I met him when I broke my leg and had gotten an infection there for poor handling. He was goofing around and I just felt the powers of friendship tell me to befriend him!”

You deadpanned. Why did you expect any other explanation?

“Well, how long do you know one another?”

“Around five years. He was just starting and I still did boxing.”

Your eyes widened in shock. No wonder she was an amazon. Damn, this woman was becoming weirder by the moment. “You stopped?”

“Yeah, Al was becoming worried and I became annoyed with the sportsmanship in the training and official fights,” Undyne frowned. “Besides, that break made sure I won’t be able to get back onto the arena.”

“Sorry to hear that.” The thought of losing an ability because of an injury was an awful thought. You shuddered at the thought of you losing your leg’s mobility. You relied on your speed and agility much more than your strength when fighting. That’s why you had your knife… that your mother confiscated… you pushed your hand into your pocket and felt around the empty space… you felt naked and vulnerable…

“I just thought of something weird!” You jumped at Undyne’s exclaim, your heart leaping into your throat. You took a deep breath to calm yourself, reminding yourself not to space out around that crazy amazon and then stared at said amazon, asking her to elaborate. Undyne placed her hands on her hips and tilted her head  in thought. “Well, Papyrus had once told me when I got him drunk about an imaginary friend that he used to have when he was a small kid.”

You gaped. This was why she had him have a heart attack?! For an imaginary friend?! "And? Why is it so important?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Undyne shrugged, “I don’t think he remembers the imaginary friend since he had never mentioned it since, so that’s not the weird part. But it was the name of it that was weird.”

You felt a sinking feeling in your gut as you asked, “What was its name?”

Undyne’s dark eyes flashed.

“Frisk.”

Crap.

NEXT