#also can we appreciate the discolouration in his wrist

[anguishmacgyver]

[showyourenergy]

compare and contrast;

              As soon as they’re out of the tower, Lalna set the other him down and crouched down to examine him. Thankfully, the ginger-haired shorty didn’t try to punch him in the face or anything, and instead still seem near-catatonic from the emotional blow Nigh had dealt. That’s… not good. To tell the truth, Lalna wasn’t in the best mental shape either; he felt like he ricocheted through several emotions from the situation escalating so quickly, and it always left him feeling dizzy. Oh, yeah, and he nearly died, had a weird-looking clone yell at him and a different weird-looking clone go nuclear at a catboy, and he had no idea what he was doing.

He’s pretty familiar with his own biology out of necessity. This means that feeling nothing when he checks for a pulse, not even a weak one, when checking the spot he’s checked on himself dozens of times, is disorienting. The sensitivity issues on his mechanical hand means that he doesn’t even bother trying to check his own wrist most of the time, seeing as he may not even be able to accurately feel it, but seeing as he was able to use his organic hand for this then it was worth a shot. Still nothing. He was out of practice with this location, so maybe he was just doing it wrong? Lalna checked a few different spots on the wrist, thinking intently, then pressed his fingers against his own wrist, sensitivity issues or not. It kind of hurt with how much pressure he was putting on it, but he could faintly feel it, just not enough to get an accurate count.

Which meant he just discovered this clone doesn’t have a pulse whatsoever. That’s… inconvenient, and also somewhat disturbing.

There isn’t any apparent injury when he lifts up the clone’s shirt, careful to not make the situation even more awkward and doing his best to avoid being near the thaumic mess serving as his right arm. Or, at least, there isn��t any blood. There’s also far less scarring than he has, which he feels like he should’ve expected but it still felt weird. Whoever this was, they’d had better luck at staying uninjured than he had. Either that, or flawless healing was another ability Specimen Three had.

He felt around, just in case there was something internal he couldn’t see at first glance, then frowned. Hold on. There was something wrong along his left side, where Nigh had grabbed him. He hiked the shirt up higher and leaned in for a closer look. There was something weird there. He blinked. It almost looked like a tattoo, or some weird marking, except it felt weird when he touched it, as if the texture of the clone’s skin had changed. It… kind of looked like a crack, thin blocky lines scored on his skin.

“Am I dead yet?”

Lalna jerked away. The clone was alive after all, blinking up at him with half-lidded eyes. It was the first time he got a full, proper look at him without things immediately going to hell, and it was one of the weirdest experiences Lalna had. Lalna was pretty used to seeing his face in the mirror, especially once he’d taken to monitoring himself for Flux resurgence, and he’d seen more people with his face walking around than he was comfortable with: alternates from other universes, clones of himself with the slightest physical differences like styling their hair differently, mindless crowds of mass-produced copies intent on murdering him into the ground, a dark, warped reflection of him with red-lensed goggles and a too-wide grin. This version of him still stood out from the rest.

Like he’d first noticed, the odd clone was closer to Nano’s height (and Specimen Three’s) than his own, and his hair was a vivid orange and far fluffier than it had any right to be. A single scar ran across his nose, starting from just under one eye and ending under the other. His labcoat was rumpled and dirty, with one sleeved rolled up to showcase his replacement arm, and the glove on his organic arm was fingerless and beige instead of being shades of grey like Lalna’s own. The shirt he’d been messing around with was also beige, and proudly displayed a logo of… some sort of company? It looked like a knockoff NASA logo, except in shades of orange and reading “JAFFA”. In small text circling the logo was what he assumed was the program’s motto: “Hold space to slow down”. The clone was also missing boots, instead apparently preferring to go barefoot, and the hems of his pantlegs were in horrible shape. Asides from all of that, they were identical.

Wait, back up. He’d heard of JAFFA before. They were the rival space program to whatever Sips and Sjin’s was, and he’d kind of stolen the idea of going to space with Nano from them. He didn’t really know much about the organization, just some word-of-mouth that it had gone quite catastrophically… Had this Lalna worked for them? The thought dug into him despite his attempts to shoo it off. He had more urgent things to focus on!

…Like the fact that the clone had asked him a question and he’d zoned out staring at him. Whoops.

“Uh... no? I mean, you seem fine, minus the whole… not having a pulse thing.” He scratched behind his head as he tilted back from a crouch to a haphazard sitting position. It wasn’t very graceful, but he didn’t care too much about that.

Oddly, the other Lalna didn’t seem too bothered to hear that. “Oh, that’s… normal.” Lalna raised an eyebrow. The other him opened his mouth to elaborate, but seemed to think better about it as he sat up and avoided looking in his direction. Lalna’s gaze drifted to the modified weapon he’d grabbed along with the clone, worried that he was going to pull it on him again, but there was something else on the clone’s mind. “…What happened to Drei?”

“Specimen Three?” He doesn’t quite understand the look the shorter him gives him. Annoyance? Irritation? Offense? Maybe “Drei” was their preferred name and he wasn’t appreciating him calling them by their designation. Somehow that felt about right, although he couldn’t explain why. “Uh, they stayed behind,” he answered. The redhead’s blue eyes widened in horror and panic, and Lalna held up his hands. “I’m sure they’ll be okay, though!” he quickly appended. “They’ve survived–” He cut himself off before he let slip that, one way or another, Drei had survived him and Nano destroying the facility they were stored in. He was pretty sure that info wouldn’t help the situation whatsoever. “–things,” he substituted. “They’re a Nano, I’m sure they can handle anything thrown at them.”

The other closed his eyes again, and for a moment Lalna thought he’d finally lost consciousness. Then he spoke up again. “Are you going to kill me?”

“What? No!” He gave him a startled look. “No, not unless you’re like… gonna try and kill me or Nano first, or replace me and do dastardly things.” The other Lalna didn’t look like he believed him, or maybe was just having trouble understanding what he was getting at. “Okay, uh. I think we got off wrong. Can we start over? Here, uh, my name’s…” He paused. Saying “Lalna” wouldn’t help, not when the name could apply to them both. Especially if the other had some bad experience or another with another Lalna, which he could easily believe both from how he’d reacted to him and how badly almost every encounter with another him had gone.

“I’m Atomic,” he settled on. He still wasn’t used to calling himself that; he’d come up with it sometime after he and Nano had exited the Time Gate while neck-deep in yet another identity crisis, and Nano had tried to push him towards defining himself as a separate entity from Hector. Finding out his entire life had been a lie had hit him hard, and he was still dealing with the aftershocks a year later.

…Speaking of identity crises. Atomic realized something that had been bugging him in the back of his mind and hadn’t surfaced to the forefront until now. Every time he’d met another Lalna from his universe— that Magic Police asshole, the pretender that had locked him away in the arrow trap, even some occasional flickers from Hector himself— foreign memories had crammed themselves into his brain, disorienting him. They could happen without him having contact with the relevant Lalna, but there was always that moment of dissociation and confusion when he met another where, for the smallest of seconds, he forgot who he was.

That hadn’t happened. Whoever this Lalna was, he had no foreign memories from him. That was… another weird thing.

He was watching him— no, more like scrutinizing him. Atomic tried not to fidget. He could tell that the other was looking at his scar; it was pretty hard to miss, a splash of discolouration across his face where the Flux used to be, and was one of the traits he desperately clung to to set him apart from the other Lalnas he’d met. After a moment, it clicked: the redhead was likely trying to compare and contrast him with whatever other Lalna he’d met before.

Atomic cleared his throat and the other startled. “Uh, like I said, I’m Atomic,” he started off, somewhat nervous. “I used to live in a big castle, and I studied things like… the Flux…” He couldn’t help but stare at the other Lalna’s right arm as he spoke. It was oversized and appeared to be made of Flux, or Taint, or at least some kind of thaumic corruption; it looked dead-on like Nano’s own Fluxed-up limbs, made of Flux goo held into shape somehow, although unlike Nano’s he couldn’t make out the dark shading indicating where the original limb was. Weirdly, it seemed to mimic the appearance of a robotic limb, with bands of darker purple around the joints and darker-shaded fingers that gave it a segmented look. Oh, yeah, and then there was the yellow eye on the back of the hand staring at him.

He was losing focus again. Atomic tried to ground himself with his own memories again as he resumed speaking. “I kinda took on an apprentice, Nano, and xe got… uh, Tainted. So since then I’ve been moving around, trying to find a way to cure xem before it’s too late.” He interlaced his fingers, examining how they fit together. “…and I’ve never seen you before in my entire life.”

The clone was scrutinizing him again. “So… you’re not him?” Atomic looked up. The other sounded confused, but also… hopeful? “You didn’t work for Hole Diggers? …You didn’t nearly throw me out into space because I’m a reject?”

Atomic’s eyes widened, and he shook his head hard enough for his goggles to fall down over his eyes. “What? No! No, I don’t even know what Hole Diggers is.” Actually, it did sound somewhat familiar… Hadn’t Hat Corp sold them a deed to a shitty, inhospitable island? His confusion and alarm seemed to soothe the other’s nerves, and the redhead reached out with his thaumic hand. Atomic eyed the offered hand uneasily, noting the six-petaled flower marking on the palm. It reminded him of the flowers Specimen Three—Drei—has been sprouting. He wondered if that was intentional.

“I’m Digger,” the other Lalna said with an uneasy smile. “Because, uh, I used to work for Hole Diggers… or, my original did.” He didn’t see the look of shock Atomic had in response to what he said. “I’m a reject, as you can probably tell… Honeydew messed with the shell constructor.” Atomic’s eyes went even wider as he mouthed ‘Honeydew?!’ in alarm. “Um, sorry for freaking out. A… a lot of things happened today.”

Atomic shook himself out of his daze. He’d have to ask Digger for more information on Honeydew— and the Lalna that Digger had been cloned from— later. “No kidding,” he groaned, pushing his goggles back up to rub at one eye with the heel of his palm. Digger still had his hand extended. Atomic considered it, then grasped it with his mechanical hand and shook it. Ew, squishy. “Do you… need a ride home…?” He trailed off, looking around. Digger giggled.

“No, it’s okay, I know my way around.” For a moment, Atomic could swear that Digger’s blue eyes had shifted to a more purple hue. Maybe it was the lighting? “Um… what about you? Do you need help?” He got to his feet and picked up the double-ended disassembler, then stowed it away in his inventory before helping Atomic up.

“I am in need of so much help,” Atomic groaned.

[cilldaracailin]

Under Pressure

This story can also be found on AO3 here:http://www.archiveofourown.org/works/23570293/chapters/56548318

29

“It's often not until after a decision is made that you know whether you've made the right choice. The relief tells you.”

“Robyn, Robyn.”

She could hear her name being called in the distance and gingerly opened her eyes. She was still leaning on Richard’s shoulder, her hand still in his.

“Hey Robyn.”

On her knees in front of her was Ruth the nurse who had been looking after Taron and Robyn sat up, her hand leaving Richard’s, her hands moving to rub her eyes before brushing her hair from her face.

“Ahh shit, did I fall asleep?”

“No harm done.” Said the nurse. “You needed the rest.” As she placed a hand on Robyn’s knee, the nurse gave her a smile. “Taron is ready for a visit, if you want to come and see him.”

Robyn sat up straighter in her chair. “We can go and see him? Now?”

“Yes. Doctor Hart told me to let you come and sit with him for a while, just a while. He needs to rest but you can come back during visiting hours. Doctor Hart is waiting in his room for you too so he can speak to you about Taron too.”

Robyn got straight to her feet with Richard following her to stand beside her.

“I will take that as a yes you want to see him.”

“Please!”

“Ok well if you both want to follow me, I will take you to his room.”

Robyn was almost walking on the nurse’s heels as she followed her out of the waiting room and down the corridor, Richard close behind her. She didn’t remember falling asleep on Richard’s shoulder but could understand why she had, her own exhaustion setting in once she was still and settled on the hard plastic chair, the heat and softness from her pillow lulling her into a slumber.

“He is just in here but Doctor Hart wants to go in with you. Just let me get him.”

She walked away from the two and Richard and Robyn turned to look at each other.

“You ok?” Asked Richard as he watched the nerves roll over Robyn’s tired face.

“When I see him for myself, I will be. You?”

“Same. It’s all just a bit… Blah.” Finished Richard when he couldn’t find a proper word to describe how he was feeling.

“Robyn?” She turned her head when she heard her name called and saw that Doctor she had a brief meeting with over two hours ago as he took Taron away. He held his hand out and Robyn shook it. “I know we have already met but it is nice to properly meet you and you must be Richard.” He shook Richard’s hand too. “So, Taron, lets slip into his room and we can talk in there.”

Doctor Hart opened the door and allowed Robyn and Richard into the room first before he followed them and closed the door behind him.

The sound of a steady beep drifted to Robyn’s ears and she took no time in walking straight over to the bed where Taron lay still, his eyes closed, his lips slightly parted as he took even regular breaths. He was dressed in a hospital gown with the sheet of the bed pulled up his chest, his arms resting by his sides outside the hospital bedding. His IV was dripping slowly into a vein on the inside of his left arm while the index finger of his right hand had a heart monitor on it. The wires that connected to the sticky pads on his chest travelled from under the top of the hospital gown at his neck to the machine they were attached too to his left, the screen displaying a clear visual aid to his vitals. The nasal cannula did not really come as a surprise to Robyn but with the rest of the medical equipment he was attached too, Taron’s appearance was a little upsetting to see.

Robyn carefully took his right hand in hers, trying to avoid the medical apparatus attached to his finger, noticing the medical ID bracelet on his wrist.

“It’s ok Robyn. You can take his hand. You won’t hurt his arm. He has been given some very strong pain killers and a little something to help him sleep. He won’t feel anything and will sleep soundly for a good few hours.”

With the encouragement from the doctor, Robyn linked her fingers with Taron’s, the temperature of his palm so much warmer than the last time she had held his hand. She glanced up to his upper arm and carefully moved the light material of the hospital gown and saw that the bloodied bandage and torn material of her shirt that she had used to wrap his arm had been replaced with a crisp white one, some bruising visible either side of the dressing. Moving the gown back down her eyes shifted to his face. She couldn’t begin explain the contentment she felt at seeing his features, soft and restful, no creases at his eyes from wincing in pain and no tears on his cheeks as he battled with discomfort. The gash on his head had been covered with another white dressing and it was just a natural reaction now for Robyn to brush his hair away a little. The right side of his face was bruised and discoloured, those little nicks caused by the glass of the broken candles, red and tender. The fingers of her left hand, carefully trailed down his jaw and then she placed her hand on his chest, feeling him breathing steadily under her touch. She moved her left hand to join her right as she held Taron’s hand in hers, wrapping his in a cocoon of support as she blinked some tears away.

“Robyn?” Asked Richard as he watched her from the opposite side of Taron’s hospital bed. He could understand her emotional reaction to seeing Taron, as he was feeling something very similar. Richard was not used to seeing his fidgety friend so still and silent, the only noise coming from him being the beeping which monitored his heart and it was difficult to take in his wounded appearance.

“I am ok. Promise.” She added looking up at Richard’s face. “It’s just a relief to see him not in pain and sleeping. He looks so peaceful. He looks good. I was expecting a lot worse but he looks so much better than he did in the 7/11, if not a little more bruised.”

“I believe that is down to you.” Said the doctor as he moved to stand beside the young woman. “I have just had a coffee with Joe, who had a chat with Officer Edwards, who had a talk with someone called Maggie who has filled in a lot of blanks for everyone about what happened in that store. This man is alive and breathing because of you.” Robyn scoffed and shook her head as she still held Taron’s hand in hers. “Your very quick thinking and knowledge of first aid and being able to put that knowledge to use under such a pressured situation, has saved this man’s life. Your extraordinary quick execution of CPR on Taron and getting a response in less than a minute has resulted in no complications at all.”

Robyn turned to look at the doctor. “Wait, what?”

“Honestly your surprise matched mine when I saw the CT results. He has no broken bones, no internal damage or bleeding and that gun shot wound was just a flesh wound but again your quick work in stopping the bleeding and keeping pressure on the wound meant that when we got his blood work back, it was all positive. He didn’t need any blood transfusion and I’ve made sure he got some extra fluids.”

“But there was so much blood on the floor under him from his arm and his face was covered in it. I was sure when he went into shock on the floor and stopped breathing, it was because of the blood loss.”

“There were a number of factors that led to that and yes blood loss was one but he had a serious knock to head too and he had been sitting in that 7/11 for more than nine hours without any pain medication. It was a lot for his body to cope with so it just went into shut down mode.”

Richard stretched across Taron’s sleeping form and placed an encouraging hand on Robyn’s right shoulder as the doctor spoke to them.

“He has a light concussion and badly bruised ribs, a number of little cuts and grazes on his upper body and you can see the wounds on his face. I have stitched the flesh wound on his arm and don’t foresee any complications with that either. He is going to be very sore and tender for a few weeks but will make a full recovery with no future complications. We are going to observe and monitor him closely over the next twenty-four hours and he will need to stay in the hospital for a few nights but by the end of next week he will be back on his feet. He will just need lots of rest but in two months or so, he will be back to doing what he was doing before.”

“Falling from zip lines and hitting bad guys with umbrellas.” Said Richard.

“Sorry?” Asked Doctor Hart.

“Taron is an actor. He is in the middle of filming a new movie that requires a lot of stunts and action sequences.”

“Well he shall have to get himself a stunt man because he will not be preforming any stunts in the near future When I said doing what he was doing, I meant watching TV and cooking dinner but we shall worry about those details further down the line. He is going to be fine.” Doctor Hart looked to his watch. “I have some more patients that I need to see but you are both more than welcome to sit with him for a while. Not too long though, an hour at most. We have made him really comfortable Robyn. He is not in any pain and we will make sure we monitor his pain and keep him on some strong pain killers until a lot of his swelling has gone down. When he is released from the hospital, I will make sure he is prescribed what he is needed to help him recover at home.”

“Thank you so much for helping Taron, Doctor.” Said Richard as he came around the bed to shake his hand. “I very much appreciate it and I know Taron will too.”

“It’s my job, but Robyn made it a little easier for me. Sit with him for a while. I will get Ruth to come to you in an hour. Robyn…” She turned to look at the Doctor. “I wish there were more people like you who are willing to help strangers and put practical lifesaving skills to use.”

He then turned and left the two in the room, Robyn turning back to look at Taron’s peaceful face. Words that her Doctor, Phoebe, had said to her while she was being examined made so much more sense to her now. Seeing Taron breathing, hearing the beep of his heart and feeling the heat in his hand made everything she had done in the 7/11 more than worth it. The emotions that came with the CPR were suddenly easy to understand and make sense of when she could physically see him and she regretted nothing.

“Here’s a chair Robyn.” Richard placed another plastic chair behind her legs and she thanked him and sat down, taking her left hand from Taron’s so she could pull the chair closer to the bed, her left hand going straight back to Taron’s again. Richard took a seat the opposite side of the bed. “I have never seen him so quiet. He is always singing or smiling.”

“He will be again soon. After some rest.” Assured Robyn. “He’d better be. I plan to win that karaoke competition. I should probably ring his mam again. She will be worrying.”

As Robyn mentioned ringing Taron’s mam, a phone rang in the room.

“Aww shit sorry. That’s me.” Said Richard and he pulled his phone from his jeans. “It’s my mam.”

“Go and answer it. Talk to your mam Richard. Me and Taron will stay here, have a sing song.”

“I will be back in a few.” Said Richard, standing up and answering the phone as he left the room.

The quiet surrounding her was soothing to Robyn as she watched Taron breathe, the constant beeping just reminding her that he was going to be ok. Finally, that weight that been resting on her shoulders since the 7/11 had been lifted and she could finally savour just having to worry about herself now. Taron was getting the treatment he needed and with an extra little help from the doctor’s, the sleep he had been depraved of and desperately needed. Watching a peaceful sleeping Taron was such a difference experience to watching a sleeping Taron who was fretful and twitchy. Even with his bruised face, Robyn could still admire his handsome features and looked down to her tatty t-shirt, smudged converse and sighed.

Reality came crashing down on Robyn very quickly all of a sudden. She couldn’t put into words to describe how she felt knowing Taron was going to be ok but now knowing that, she had to put some honest perspective into the situation, one with which she had nothing to do with any more. The Floridian sun may have turned her skin brown and helped to highlight her hair but she that was where she considered her so called beauty to end. She was not anything special by any means, a plain Jane who did not fit into Taron and Richard’s world of entertainment that focused on body sizes and looks.

She looked to the door and Ruth walked back in.

“Don’t worry the hour is not up yet. I’m just here to check on him, tick some boxes off.” Ruth picked up the chart at the end of Taron’s bed and moved to the monitor and wrote the numbers down before checking the IV bag. “He’s going to be just fine.”

“Yeah I know. That’s really good news.” She watched at Ruth replaced the clip board. “Hey Ruth do you think I could have some paper and a pen please?”

“Yeah of course.” Ruth walked over to one of the presses and took out an unused medical chart on a clipboard and a pen left them on the bottom of the bed for Robyn. “You can use the back to write on. Are you ok?” She asked, seeing the sad look on Robyn’s face.

“Yeah I am. Just tired.”

“Of course. It has been a long night for you. I will leave you to it then.”

Robyn turned back to Taron, took her hands from his and reached for the pen and medical chart. She flipped the page over and began to write.

[artificialqueens]

: Sinning Never Felt So Good (Pearlet) : Chapter 5 : katyasbingowings

When Matt grudgingly awoke the next morn he noticed three things: the pounding headache making his waking moments a living hell, the warmth he felt being much more prominent than a regular day, and the fact that he wasn’t alone in his bed. With this new realisation, Matt’s eyes snapped open, only then understanding the treacherous situation he was thrust into, as below him lay a shirtless Jason dozed off and snoring lightly. We fell asleep, we were drunk, no biggie, bros being bros. He breathed out heavily to calm his demeanour.

Matt went to raise himself gently from the other, not wishing to wake Jason and trigger an awkward encounter about their current situation, until he lifted the blanket and revealed both their naked forms pressed tightly against each other. At this point, Matt screamed, snatching the quilt and reclaiming his dignity by shielding himself, leaving Jason to bare all.

“What the fuck Matt,” Jason groaned at the sudden exposure, voice rough, hair unruly, body marked, eyes twitching open and becoming used to the sunlight streaming into the dorm. Matt merely threw another blanket at the nude boy, not wanting Jason’s genitalia to be in his eyesight for any longer than it needed to be.

“What the fuck Matt? You are naked, as in you have no clothes on at all, in my bed, where I was sleeping too, do you not see a problem here?” Matt raced out, Jason staring at him dumbstruck, not seeming to be focused on his eyes, but his neck in odd wonder.

“No problem at all,” Jason wore that ever-so-present smirk, stretching and sitting up in the bed, allowing the covers to drop and his bare chest to show. Scratches. Raw, fresh scratch marks painted the milky-skin boy’s front, the flesh no longer so perfect and pure. As Jason stretched Matt noticed the faint bruises present on his wrists, as if he had been held down with bearish force, restricted with a lack of control. His hair a mess, as if it had been kneaded at by another. Everything began to click into place.

“We didn’t, no, we couldn’t have,” Matt began to panic, now aware of how sore his muscles felt, turning to now examine himself in the nearby mirror. Similar to Jason, his hair was unkept, strands sticking in every direction known to man, untameable by any means. The most prominent feature, however, was a sizeable bruised mark on his neck, a mixture of deep red and purple decorating his skin: a love bite. “Jason, please say we didn’t…”

“Oh but we did sweetcheeks, I would have never taken you for someone so rough by the look of you,” Matt’s entire world crumbled around him: his beliefs, his morals, his religious background. All unrepairable after a single night of intoxication, one he should have never indulged in at all. “Don’t worry though, you didn’t stick it up me if you’re worried about that, I would still be feeling that today if you had.” That didn’t exactly help a fretting Matt.

Fragments of the night before were beginning to return: the image of him gyrating against a powerless Jason pinned to a wall, a frame of a his first entangled in a knot of black locks, his eyes looking up as he sucked Jason off - just to find pleasure in causing pleasure. Matt shook his head violently, refusing to be reminded of such sickly events, eyes glazing over. Finding himself unable to withstand the other’s company, he rushed to clothe himself (especially careful to disguise his new marking with a scarf) and leave, unaffected by Jason’s yells for him to stay and talk about the previous night’s events. Matt’s initial idea was to go pray and repent, though his prominent hickey would be noticed and punished accordingly as soon as he stepped foot in the chapel, so instead he headed to his only other friend’s room, tapping with a mission on the wooden door.

“What the fuck Matt,” Adore answered after a solid five minutes of rhythmic banging. This statement already reminded him too much of his roommate, and he had come here to forgot that individual. Instead of answering, he barged his way through unapologetically and took a seat on Katya’s bed, crushing the sleeping Russian’s legs doing so. He was sure she too muttered ‘what the fuck Matt’.

“I can’t be in the same room as Jason right now,” Matt explained, “I also need to borrow some makeup.”

“I have three questions Matthew,” Katya voiced from beneath him, pausing for a yawn before continuing, “why can you not be with Jason, why on earth do you need makeup you are already beyond beautiful, and can you please get off me I am beginning to cramp up.”

He shuffled gently to remove pressure from the girl’s limb, resulting in a relieved groan, “I’m not even sure how to explain, I can remember the most of it but I’m sure they’ll be bits I’ve forgot. You see, I’m not really sure how to say this, and it’s a big deal for -”

“Just spit it out Matt, you have to have a solid reason for waking me up this early when I’m hungover,” Adore hurried, wrapping herself in a duvet, as it a small grating of cheese in a giant blanket burrito.

Matt sighed in defeat, undoing the scarf. As it feel in a heap into his lap the two females audibly gasped, Katya even reaching up to trace the bruise with gentle fingers. “I need to cover this up so I can go pray and hope that God forgives me for giving in to sin,” Matt explained, defeated, unable to look up and face his companions out of sheer embarrassment.

“That’s so fucking cool,” Adore exclaimed suddenly, “it’s like a temporary tattoo that tells everyone you’re a badass.” Well that’s one way to put it. The swamp-haired beauty roughly tilted his head sidewards to fully examine his neck, poking and asking if it hurt, he’d just grunt in response, not wanting to even talk about the awful situation he was in.

“Adoor leave Matthew’s neck alone, you may pierce his pulmonary artery,” Katya warned, shooing off the other female, before turning back to the distressed individual, “you look worried, so today we have a pajama day to help you deal with your new feelings towards the males.”

“I don’t have any feelings towards the males, Katya,” Matt snapped, defending himself and his moral beliefs immediately, this was not the path he planned to go down.

“Jason gave you this yes?” Katya pried, prodding at the hickey, causing a gentle rush of pain down the boy’s neck. He recoiled away slightly, rubbing the sore area, wondering about the best method to disguise the unsightly discolouration if his skin.

“Yes, but that means nothing; I was drunk, he was drunk, it was all a drunken mess.” Matt reasoned, reminding himself to also find some paracetamol to soothe his pounding head.

“And you put your pee pee in his bum bum?” The Russian questioned, gesturing to both areas and briefly acting out the scene, one Matt wished she did not.

“No! We didn’t do that, we did other things but not that…” He pushed the memories to the back of his head, not wanting to relive the immense pleasure Jason’s mouth around his member caused him, or the filthy actions that took place in the very same room.

“So you stuck your pee pee in his mouth?” Matt’s silence was answer enough, “maybe you do not like most of the males, but you are attracted to Jason.”

“No I am most defiantly not,” Matt spat out, hand now running over his temples to massage out the pent up tension.

“Yes you are,” Adore and Katya answered in sync, followed by a quick fist bump before the conversation returned to Matt’s sexuality. “I bet you’ve felt the same way towards a woman as you have towards Jason, that you can not lie about.”

“I. Am. Not. Gay. I can’t be. You don’t even understand, not only would I blatantly be going against the words of God and be sent directly to hell - man shall not lay with a man, you’ve all heard it - but my family would actually disown me. My dad, oh my god my dad, if he even knew he would skin me alive, it’s just not okay where I am from. I’d be an embarrassment to the family, they can never know about what happened, and I can not let it happen again, I won’t let it happen again.” Matt breathed, finally, after the lengthy tirade, just needing to get his thoughts out in the open.

“But do you feel this way because you’re scared of your family, or because you actually don’t have any feelings towards men?” Adore shot out, looking at Matt is sorrow, distraught to see a friend so isolated in a deluded mindset. More silence.

“Just, have you got any concealer or colour corrector or both would be ideal; I can’t go around like this,” Matt broke the silence, desperate to change the topic, he came to this room to escape and was only feeling more confused. Adore pointed him in the right direction, allowing him to take free reign in concealing the mark.

“You actually know what you’re doing, I’m impressed,” Adore voiced, watching the boy blend out the liquids until his love bite was practically invisible, you’d only be able to tell it was there if you were looking for it.

“I did all the girls makeup back home for prom and dances and stuff, they called my make-up persona pearl,” Matt smiled at the memory, remembering the rush he received from decorating over his friends with glitter and eyeshadow, always believing it was just another work surface for artwork. “I was in high demand actually, I had girls booking me for prom a year in advance.” He was somewhat proud of this fact, in all honesty.

“Do my makeup right now. You don’t have a choice.” Adore demanded, attempting to cheer her companion up by distracting from the past night and into the abundance of cosmetic product she had piled up. Matt appreciated the idea, he did love the practice, and began to work at the girl’s face. Katya had fallen asleep, allowing the two to small talk idly as he brushed pigment against her eyelids.

***

Jason had spent the last few hours isolated in his dorm room, initially attempting to get some more rest, though that didn’t seem to be happening; his thoughts too busy racing. He did not understand why he couldn’t just forget the situation he was in, as he usually did, used to the motto “suck their dick and move on” as he’d previously mentioned. Every time his eyes closed images of himself and Matt - in various positions and scenarios - filled his mind, running in repeat and riling him up too much for sleep to overcome. After a solid hour and a half of this, he showered and freshened up, took a few drags leaning out the window, before he was officially sick of his surroundings.

It was around 11.45, the fact that lunch started at 12.00 gave Jason motivation to dress and make his dead appearance somewhat presentable, and as it was not an official school day he was free to dress in whatever he wished: a vest top and too short short-shorts. He was practically sleepwalking when he reached the cafeteria, piling food in his plate and taking a seat in the most isolated corner, not in the mood for social interaction. He wasn’t actually used to having his nourishment sat down like a normal person, usually grabbing something to go and sneaking out for a cigarette, the noise around drowning out his thought process surprisingly comforting.

“You look like actual death,” Adore announced her arrival, arms overflowing with various items of food and face beat to the gods, literally looking better than Jason had ever saw her.

“I’m not even gonna question the getup, or how you could be arsed to make your face look that good after yesterday,” Jason grinned, examining the footsie pyjamas and bedazzled features of his swampy-haired friend, amused by the casual and glamorous contrast.

“For one, I’m just taking food back to my room so I didn’t want to waste an amazing outfit if no one was going to see, obviously. Compared to you Mr. Legs-For-Days,” she joked, pinching his butt to mock his revealing attire. Jason responded by sultrily displaying his leg in the cafeteria table, stroking it up and down for added effect. “And do you really believe I did this, pfffft, Matt did.” Jason was left baffled for a second, unaware that his roommate had perfected such a craft, genuinely impressed.

“So he ended up in your room?” Jason asked, attempting to maintain his casual and carefree aura, despite the topic of Matt leaving him in edge. He absentmindedly took a bite out of his Apple, all while focusing on Adore.

“Yeah, he was pretty shaken up about the whole, you know, ‘thing’ that happened between you two,” Adore informed, seating herself across from the dark-haired individual and releasing her collection of snacks onto the table top.

“You mean the dick sucking?” Jason dead panned, pretending to not be effected by the entire situation; not wanting to tarnish his badass persona he had built up to perfection.

“Yeah that, he only really freaked out about God and his family - you know how Matt is, not the actual sucking and shit, what was kinda strange,” the celestial voiced her thoughts casually, studying the other’s reaction to her words, “he kept going on about praying and his dad skinning him alive.”

“So basically God is cock-blocking me?” Jason pried, a little bit too curious about the whole situation, which Adore took notice on and cackled loudly.

While the conversation took place, Roy watched the pairing from a distance, hand clutching a strip of aspirin. He planned on giving them to Adore, after witnessing her drunk state yesterday and realising she wouldn’t be in a great shape, and now watching her so comfortable to with another boy struck something inside of him that it shouldn’t. He refused to let such silly emotions ruin him, pushing them aside immediately, and merely waited until Adore decided to leave her companion to continue eating alone, soon catching up to her in the halls.

“Adore!” Roy called, watching the strange one turn dramatically and smiling widely at his call. To Roy she was truly fascinating: appearing so young in her childish attire, though face decorated so mature and bizarrely, arms cascading with food and strands of green hair disguising her facial features.

“Hey Roy,” she attempted to reach an arm up and wave, though that action just resulted in the dropping of a package of gummy bears. The older man laughed quietly, retrieving the lost goods and returning it to her, before adding the aspirin to the current pile in her grasp.

“To help your head, but you didn’t get the from me,” he smiled in a small manner, leaving Adore utterly stunned silent by the kind gesture. Roy, confused by the quiet nature of the usual boisterous one, began to ramble nervously, now worried he had made a bad move, “you were just so out of it last night, and I thought they’d help, and I’ll take them back if you don’t need them, and -”

“Shut your mouth, I’d hug you right now if I could,” Adore gushed, grin now somehow wider than before, “thanks for last night by the way, I know you should’ve got me in trouble, but you didn’t, I appreciate it.” Roy’s heart reacted to Adore’s words, speeding up to a rapid pace when she looked down at him through her eyelashes.

“Just don’t let it happen again,” Roy returned to his usual authoritative tone as another teacher walked by, not wanting their somewhat inappropriate situation to be compromised.

“Of course not sir, I’ll have the homework in for tomorrow I promise!” Adore winked to continue the cover up, before turning around and disappearing down the halls, unaware of the long lasting effect she had on the dimpled man she left behind.

-~-~-~-

Jason had ended up in Willam and Justin’s room after being banished from Adore and Katya’s abode, Willam and himself bantering away while Justin plucked his eyebrows with rigour in the corner.

“Have you and that Matt guy got a thing going on?” Willam questioned innocently, absentmindedly finding with his curls as Jason was taken aback, now wondering if all his companions picked up on him and Matt’s actions the night prior.

“Me and Matt? No, of course not,” Jason forced, smiling stiffly, blood running cold, the words tasting bitter against his tongue. Of course Jason knew what he was stating was true, nothing but awkwardness was apparent between him and his roommate, though admitting that felt somewhat difficult.

“Good, he’s cute and I want me some of that,” the other bit laughed jokingly, Jason joining along awkwardly.

“He’s straight I wouldn’t even go there,” he wasn’t that straight with his mouth wrapped around your -

“Liza Minelli! You two didn’t look too straight last night, you like that boy,” Justin butted in, pointing his tweezers accusingly in the Raven-haired individual’s direction. He sat stunned for a moment, surely Jason wasn’t that easy to read, he liked to remain subtle in where he spared his feelings - he didn’t spare them often after all.

“Just, don’t go after him,” Jason sighed, defeated, no explanation for either his friends nor himself. The two agreed to let the subject die silently, instead talking about their antics back at home before being sent to rot in a catholic boarding school.

Time quickly field by, nightfall soon upon them, and the weight of having to go back to his room and confront Matt suffocated Jason. He stood outside the door for far too long, knowing full well Matt would already be pyjama-clad and ready for rest, and knowing that Matt was probably more nervous about their unavoidable interaction. Though Jason just couldn’t bring himself to enter, his hand resting against the handle until he eventually gave up, instead decided to lean against the opposing wall and let his eyes close in comfort.

“You can’t stay out there all night,” Jason’s eyes fluttered open to the sound of Matt’s voice, who was awkwardly resting against the doorframe, “come on, you’re the one who said we should talk.”

[egodari]

hhhhhh so i decided to do something about that dimension hoppers here we go [Ao3] [Next]

Word Count: 3004

Characters: Fiddleford McGucket, Stanford Pines

Pairings: Fiddauthor/Ford Squared (slow burn)

Notes: hhhhhh what have i done. please be gentle im really trying with this

Stanford and Fiddleford trudge up to the portal, holding the cream coloured crash-test dummy in their arms. The almost blindingly electric-blue light of the portal’s centre spins around, almost hypnotically. It’s probably the most beautiful thing the two young men ever saw, but it was hard for Fiddleford to appreciate their work with the impending feeling of doom that sits restlessly in the bottom of his stomach. He can feel a dangerous vibe that radiates from the spectacular lightshow of the portal, and it makes him dizzy. He envies Stanford, who feels nothing but joy and pride for their work. Excitement buzzes within Stanford’s rather short stature. Finally, he’ll be able to prove to the world that he’s more than just a waste of space on this earth. That he’s more than just a doddering, abnormal hunk of carbon matter. Stanford also feels grateful to be able to share this achievement with Fiddleford. His best and only friend. He’s glad that he decided to show up for testing day, despite last night’s… incident. Despite their occasional bickering, Stanford can’t help but feel a small knot in his stomach every time he’s this close to him. He silently wishes that they were something more… no, that would be weird. Fiddleford wouldn’t… would he? Despite that, Stanford revels in the fact that he and his friend are so close to each other in this present moment. Stanford pulls himself from his thoughts when he sees the do-not-cross line blaring from his feet. The portal’s magnetic field gently tugs on their coats and ties. “Ready?” Stanford affirms sternly, loosening his grip on the dummy. Fiddleford nods silently, letting go of it. Stanford lets the dummy float through the centre of the portal, not noticing the strand of rope wrapped around his ankle until it is too late. Until Stanford himself is dragged along with the dummy. He screams, but his screams are only audible for mere seconds, until his head passes through the electric-blue disc of energy that spins rapidly within the centre of the portal. Haphazardly, Fiddleford clenches the rope that is attached to Stanford, keeping him from passing through entirely. “I’ve got you!” Fiddleford cries, but his words are lost to the whirrs of the portal. Even if he was audible, Stanford wouldn’t be able to hear him.

His head is lost in a flurry kaleidoscope of colours that could give a blind man an eyesore. Impossibly possible shapes and patterns decorate the dark, star-spotted sky that is everywhere. A loud and wholesomely dramatic classical symphony echoes throughout the seemingly infinitely seamless expanse. Asteroids slowly orbit the glowing, amber crown jewel of a photo-sensitive’s worst nightmare. And that crown jewel is Bill Cipher. Stanford’s holy muse, except the truth of Bill Cipher is that he is the bane of all that is holy. Stanford can only, helplessly, watch as Bill’s exoskeleton slowly opens up to reveal the nastiest orifice he has ever seen. An orifice used for the sole purpose to feed on a poor soul’s sanity and being. After feeding, Bill’s exoskeleton closes back up and he returns to his familiar, triangular, yellow form. “SIXEEER, DIDN’T YOU KNOW IT’S RUDE TO ENTER SOMEONE’S HOUSE WITHOUT KNOCKING?” Bill’s screechy voice magnified a million times echoes from everywhere, “BUT, I SHOULD REALLY BE THANKING YOU FOR OPENING THE GATE TO A BETTER WORLD! A WORLD THAT IS GOING TO BE FREE TO PARTY FOR INFINITY!” Stanford’s eyes widen in horror as he realises what he had just done. “You-you lied to me!?” Stanford tries to scream, but his words are muffled by the extremely loud symphony that plays throughout Bill’s realm. His mind is racing, and his vision doubles. What is he going to say to Fiddleford? Suddenly, he can feel the rest of his body join his head in indefinite weightlessness. From the corner of his eye, Stanford can see Fiddleford himself floating near him. The blue disc of light that illuminated a small part of this realm has disappeared. Stanford starts to panic and hyperventilate. However, the same isn’t said for Fiddleford, who is bubbling with an anger that muffles the panic and fear. He has long suspected that Stanford had outside help, and he isn’t pleased to find out that his suspicion is true. Angrily, Fiddleford grabs Stanford’s wrist and quickly swims through the zero-gravity expanse to the nearest large asteroid, not even batting an eye to Stanford. Once the duo makes their way to a cave in an asteroid, Fiddleford harshly shoves Stanford to the ground. “I can’t believe it,” Fiddleford bitterly hisses, turning away from the man dressed in a white shirt, dark grey pants and a tan overcoat. “I can’t fucking believe it!” Kneeling on the dusty and rough ground, Stanford clenches his middle in pain. Maroon red stains the tan sleeve of his long overcoat. Hot, salty tears trickle from the corner of his eyes. Stanford tries to wipe them away with his spare hand, but the tears keep falling from his eyes. Then, the most horrifying thing of January the Eighteenth, 1982, is to see blood drip from Stanford’s right eye and onto his six-fingered hand. He can hear every bitter-soaked and anger-filled word that Fiddleford has to say, accompanied with a barrage of swears. Stanford knows this is a rather tense situation, but he silently begs in his head for his assistant to watch the fucking language. He knows that Fiddleford only swears when he furious and livid, and that is just another package of concentrated guilt on Stanford’s chest, put atop the overwhelming fear and unbearable pain of his sustained injury. He wishes that this is a dream and that he could just wake up, but unfortunately, this isn’t the case. Somewhere, in the back of Stanford’s mind, he knows it to be true. “Fucking turn around and listen to me!” Fiddleford roars angrily, unaware that Stanford is fully conscious of everything he said. However, Stanford obeys and slowly, shakily turns around to face him. His anger melts away and dissipates into nothing when Fiddleford sees the maroon red stain discolouring Stanford’s hand, arm and right eye. He gasps, rather audibly, and covers his mouth with both his hands. Despite his newfound resentment towards him, Fiddleford finds that he still very much cares for his friend’s wellbeing. “I didn’t… know, I was… t-tricked,” Stanford laments, trying his best to stop tears falling from his red (one considerably more red than the other) and puffy eyes, but ultimately, failing. Stanford seldom feels genuinely upset and guilty, and in the back of his head, he’s glad that it’s seldom because it feels so terrible. It’s as if some malicious creature is eating away at him from the inside, from the pit of his stomach, and it only brings him more pain the more he thinks, about his situation, about anything, really. “I—I’m sorry, I’m so s-sorry. I-I’ll try to-to fix this, I’m sorry! P-please… forgive me…” Stanford sobs, constantly stumbling over his own words and frequently being interrupted by his hitched breaths and hiccups. How out of character it is for him to be like this. Dr. Stanford Filbrick Pines, PhD (PhD, PhD, PhD etc.), the prideful, successful and intellectually superior child of Maud and Filbrick Pines, sobbing on his knees and begging for mercy and forgiveness. It’s almost pathetic, really. Fiddleford ponders about what Stanford claims to say. Would a man like him, so gentle and caring and persevering really be plotting to end the world? With a nacho wearing a stupid little bowtie and top hat, at that? He thinks back to the six months they spent together, working on the portal. Every pleasant memory, every time they debated over something stupid, every long night they spent quintriple-checking equations, every event that went south and crashed and burned, and how they were there for each other. He kneels down in front of Stanford and looks him straight into his eyes, and Fiddleford can see, so clearly, the guilt and pain in his cocoa-brown eyes. Fiddleford rests his hands on his shoulders and sighs. This time, he’s in the wrong, “Stanford… I—I’m sorry.” More tears trickle from Stanford, who remains silent, but slightly happier knowing that his friend forgives him. He suddenly lunges forward, despite his injury, and wraps Fiddleford in a tight, desperate hug, crying into his shoulder. “I-I overreacted,” Fiddleford mutters softly, in a feeble attempt to explain his outburst. “No, no,” Stanford replies, muffled from burying his face into his assistant’s shoulder. He gently breaks away from the hug, lifting his head off Fiddleford’s shoulder, “’S okay.” Fiddleford’s electric blue eyes wander down to Stanford’s middle, adorned with a nasty gash soaked in wet blood. He makes quick work of removing his black tie, ignoring Stanford’s befuddled expression. “This should work as a makeshift bandage,” Fiddleford explains, wrapping the long length of fabric around his middle. “As for yer eye…” he scratches the back of his head, “I don’t know what to do about that.” Stanford shakes his head, replying in a soft, but cracked voice, “N-no, don’t worry about it. We should probably find a way out of this place first. Without… y’know, dying.” As much as Fiddleford wants to protest against that suggestion and worry more for Stanford’s eye, he can admit that getting out of Bill’s realm is priority. Quickly, preferably. Fiddleford gets up on his feet and offers a hand to his friend, who takes it without hesitation. From the literal centre of the Nightmare Realm, Bill impatiently scans over the starry expanse of the Nightmare Realm. He knows that Stanford and his assistant are somewhere here, he just doesn’t know where exactly. And that’s exactly why he has henchmaniacs. “SIXER AND HIS PET IDIOT WANNA PLAY HIDE AND SEEK!” Bill shrieks playfully, his voice irritatingly echoing throughout the infinite fabric of the realm. His shrill voice lowers to a dangerously serious tone, “FIRST ONE TO FIND THEM AND BRING THEM TO ME GETS THEIR OWN GALAXY.” Skitter growls and shrill shrieks of monsters and ghouls follow Bill’s statement as his henchmaniacs hurry off to hunt Stanford and Fiddleford down. Bill eagerly watches his minions become smaller and smaller until they’re little dots against the deep, dark blue of the Nightmare realm. He starts to fantasise about what he’ll do to his puppets once he gets his hands on them. Perhaps, kill one of them, and feed on the other’s misery. And it won’t be long before someone will stumble upon that portal, in their basement, and fire is up again. Let it charge, until it’s ready, and finally, Bill will have that whole reality to himself. He fantasises further, imagining how he’ll make that measly hunk of rock, earth and water better, fun. Bill lets himself get so wrapped in his fantasies, he barely notices Fiddleford and Stanford dart past him. Fiddleford glides, swoops and swims gracefully past and through asteroids with ease, Stanford tightly holding his arm, trailing behind him. Every so often, Fiddleford looks back to his friend to make sure he’s okay, which he is, physically, at least. Fiddleford’s mind wanders, as he tries to pinpoint what he’s going to do about their situation. How would they get home? How would they survive long enough to do that? How would they survive at all? These are all questions that blare in his mind, but he doesn’t expect for them to be answered anytime soon. “Fidds!” Stanford’s shriek pulls him out of his thoughts. His eyes dart to where Stanford is pointing, which, in this case, is a large, colour-shifting lard-creature. Its many eyes have little to no white in them, only charcoal-black irises and a thirst for death lies in them. It hones in on the two young men as they start to double back to another asteroid. But Stanford doesn’t move, floating perfectly still, almost… petrified, staring at the insult-to-life as it opens its mouth wide open, its shark-like rows of teeth rearing their ugly heads. “Stanford, what on Earth are you doing!?” Fiddleford sputters, tugging on his hand. There is no response, nothing but the monster’s growls and the loud symphony that continues to play to answer the engineer. Without a second thought, Fiddleford drags Stanford with him through the sea of weightlessness as quickly as he possibly can, not stopping for even a millisecond. He dives into a small crack of a huge asteroid, a crack that leads to a spacy, dark and damp cave that the monster dives right past. Diving into that thin crack had Fiddleford and Stanford landing in a rather awkward position. But Fiddleford quickly dismisses the fact that he’d landed on top of Stanford, more concerned about survival more than anything else. He cups Stanford’s face in his hands and watches as the lime clouds in his eyes slowly dissipate. When he comes to his senses, Stanford starts coughing and sputtering, as if he just resurfaced from being underwater for so long. “Stanford, Stanford, Stanford,” is the only word Fiddleford mutters repeatedly, rather quickly, brushing a hand through Stanford’s brown hair as his coughing subsides. “I-I-I—that… I…y-you?” Stanford babbles lubberly, almost incoherently. He can hear how illegible his own words (if they even qualify as words at all) sound to him, he can’t imagine what they must sound like to Fiddleford. “Shh, slow down, darlin’,” Fiddleford murmurs, gently brushing Stanford’s frazzled hair out of his face. “I-it was like-like the Gremloblin ah-all over again,” Stanford tries to answer again, trying to keep the rate of his speech at a speed that intelligible, but his panic finds a way to reduce his words up to and beyond comprehension. “I-I couldn’t—I couldn’t move! It-it-it-it was t-terrible.” Fiddleford gently pulls Stanford up, and embraces him in some attempt to calm him down, “I’ve got ya, yer safe.” Stanford wraps his arms around Fiddleford in return, murmuring something about not being able to be truly safe ever again. Hushed incoherent sounds reverberate from deeper within the cave, interrupting the shaken duo. However, the sounds didn’t sound menacing. They sounded… scared. “Stanford, let’s check deeper into this cave,” Fiddleford suggests. Stanford nods, deciding against arguing with him. Every time he shunned Fiddleford’s suggestions, it’s always, always gone south. The pair creep deeper into the cave. Fiddleford, not looking where he is walking, trips and tumbles down a short, but steep ledge, pulling Stanford down with him. When they land onto the ground below (with nothing less than a handful of newly formed bruises), they find a shivering group of intergalactic refugees huddled around a strange purple fire, who notice their presence almost instantly. Their leader, a hairy mix between a guinea pig and a pirate, beckons the pair closer to them in a welcoming manner. Fiddleford walks over to the group with trepidation, Stanford trailing close behind him. The creatures took turns in explaining their tale. They explain to Fiddleford and Stanford that they were apparently asteroid miners whose ship was sucked into a dimensional wormhole, and they found themselves lost in the Nightmare Realm like them. A green-scaled, tall and lanky alien with big eyes with almost no white and frills that decorate the top, sides and back of his head with his arm in bandages asks the pair what their story is. Stanford loathes to explain his backstory with Bill, covering his eyes and curling in on himself, leaning against Fiddleford, whimpering. Fiddleford runs his hand through Stanford’s hair as he explains to the asteroid miners that Bill tricked them into building a portal to let him into their dimension. When Fiddleford offhandedly utters the word Bill, the aliens shriek and cover their ears as if he had said something obscene, leaving him confused. The leader of the aliens explains to the pair that Stanford’s, quote-unquote Muse is actually one of the most feared beings throughout the entire Multiverse. They tell him the many legends and theories that circle around Bill Cipher, ranging from how he got his powers to where he came from in the first place. “You see, humies, Bill Cipher took over this place as a hideout for him and his crazy band of cronies, but because rules and physics don’t exist nor apply here, this place is going to either self-destruct or get terminated by an interdimensional superior,” the guinea pig/pirate alien leader reveals to the pair. “That answers why he wanted you to build that portal so badly,” Fiddleford ponders, looking down at Stanford, who is fidgeting with his hands. His eyes remain focused on the magical glittering purple fire. He notices Stanford becoming increasingly more agitated as time passes (on the contrary, time is dead in this dimension). A life-form that looks like a cross between a bug and a gnome feels sceptical towards them, but takes pity on the earth men. The group decides to give Stanford and Fiddleford some rations and a dimension translator. Fiddleford nods as he accepts the donations, incredibly grateful for it. “Is—what’s the chance we-we’d be able to get home?” Stanford asks the group with trepidation. So many pairs of eyes watching him… He feels queasy. “Without a decent Class Four portal device, you’re essentially lost in the multiverse forever,” the green-scaled alien answers without a second thought, “Although, you can jump dimensions through wormholes that pop up suddenly.” The same alien points to the wide opening behind him, leading back outside to the rest of the Nightmare Realm, “Statistics say that a handful’s gonna open up there in a couple of seconds.” Surprisingly, Fiddleford and Stanford didn’t notice that opening before. The two humans bid their goodbyes as they float over the group of wormholes nearby, casting their fates to the wind to discover what new and strange worlds await them. Strange worlds that no being of their species before has ever witnessed. “Those humies won’t last a week,” ζβ02 states to his shivering band of refugee, still grinning from waving them goodbye.