#but these were always deathless as far as I’m aware and this was an ugly death at that

[theloverstomb]

a wood pigeon hit my window very hard this morning and died, which is the first time i’ve seen a bird hit a window of mine and die as a result. me and my brother buried it in the garden and I picked flowers for its grave

[strawberryamanita]

Sympathy for the Devil

I'm aware this ficlet might be a little preachy, and it might run the risk of making some think I'm ruining the fun of what's going on now, but gdi I need to get this off my chest. Here we go:

The projection was turned off after Wilford gave his little spiel, and by the look on his face he was the only one amused by any of it. One giddy, smiling man wasn't really enough to bring any joy to the stoic, tired or even bored expressions on the other seven faces in the room. It was exceptionally early in the morning, but inspiration often struck Wilford spontaneously, and if he couldn't make some sort of plan or presentation before the motivation left him that idea was as good as gone. So, naturally, the seven most recent contacts on his phone got repeatedly messaged until they begrudgingly joined him in the boardroom.

Such was the way things were when you worked for Warfstache.

So, there they were, in their pajamas, exchanging looks to eachother, asking eachother in silence if they could believe this nonsense. Jim was barely bothering to keep himself awake, and had a tape recorder taking notes for him. Ed was rushed too quickly to the room to even get his glasses, and was uncomfortably squinting at the screen throughout the presentation. Google Green was in the process of sleepily plugging his body-charger into the wall, while Dr. Iplier did what he could to assist him with a half-awake helping hand. The Host was in his place, narrating as usual, but even his words were slurred and almost unintelligible with how tired he was. Bim appeared to be the crankiest of the bunch this morning, which certainly was saying something considering who was sitting at the head of the table…

Yes, though the motley crew that flanked the sides of the conference table were shuffled around at random, Dark always managed to find their way back to the head. They were the most awake, which didn't help any of the Egos’ gossiping theories that they didn't sleep. They sat with perfect posture, hands folded, completely still, as they always did. They were even wearing a clean-pressed suit, admittedly making some of the other employees a little self-conscious; Hell, even Wilford was wearing a nightrobe and slippers. Always attentive, always critical, always involved in what Wil had to say, even when they didn't agree with his doolally ideas.

They took everything so seriously. It was kind of laughable.

“So!” Wilford began, eyes alight with pride as he took his seat at the table. “Whaddya think? What impressions come knocking at the backdoor of your minds? What are your questions? Comments? Concerns? CRIES of outrage? Don't be shy, now…!”

Various, scattered groans of reluctance and hesitation floated around the room. What were they even supposed to say? Wil was always looking to improve on his ideas, bless his heart, but they were so odd and intangible that it was difficult figuring out where to begin. The Sun wasn't even fully out, how did he expect them to be awake enough for any of this?

Wilford's eyes were wide and lively as he excitedly scanned the room, looking for someone to speak up. “Nnnnnnnnnnoooobody?” he rang, the smile on his face unshakable.

I'd like to make a comment.

Even more groans came from the rest of the company when the deep, two-toned voice echoed from their other boss. Of course Dark had something to say. They always did. They always had to find a way to take up their time, and though the group's complaints rang clear, both Dark and Wil were unfazed. When Dark spoke, Wil listened, and he was always excited to.

“Darkiplier! You have the floor,” he trilled. “Please, stake your claim!”

The infallible enthusiasm in his voice almost brought a smile to the demon's stone-colored, stone-still face.

To begin with, they droned in their raspy monotone, you had a strong starting point; I have to admit, however, that you lost me somewhere down the line. Referring to the notes I've taken, you began your presentation talking about investing the extraneous income from your talkshow and television channel into other projects, but by the end of it, we were discussing, and I quote, “how much bubble soap would someone have to ingest for it to kill them”. Have I...missed something?

“My God, are you serious?”

Six pairs of eyes flew to the sneering gameshow host. Bim had been making scathing comments all morning: since it was unlike his usually chipper and quick-witted self, the others had laughed it off. At this time, however, it was starting to make the others uncomfortable.

“What's the problem, Mr. Trimmer?” asked Wilford, eager to settle any confusion as best he could.

“What's the problem? The problem is, these conferences are getting ridiculous.” He glared at Dark, who again appeared unaffected by his sudden desire to go on a tangent.

“What are you doing, Dark? Why are you entertaining this bullshit? We all know you have better things to do.”

...Because that's the reason for the meeting? Dark responded, confused at the younger Ego's confusion.

“Oh, come on, man, don't try and pretend you're following along. You're just as aware as anyone else here that this shouldn't be taken seriously.”

Wilford pouted. “Well, hey, now…”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Warfstache, this actually isn't really even about the meeting. You say whatever stupid shit you want --”

“Hey!”

The others in the group began to speak up, their protests overlapping, but Bim's voice still cut through the air to get to Dark, and they could hear every word.

“--I'm talking about you. What game are you playing here, huh?”

...I'm...not--

“Don't say you're not. Don't act like any of us are still blind to this. What part of your scheme is this for? We all know you don't actually care about any of this --”

“Bim, you need to stop--”

“-- so what're you even here for? Why are you not locked up in your room, like you always are, brooding and plotting your rampage of revenge? Isn't this getting in the way of all that? What kind of trick are you tryna pull?”

When Bim was finished with his outburst, all that could be heard was The Host's muttering and the soft ringing surrounding the accused's form. Wil was alert and angry, his eyes flickering between the two, getting ready to break them up if things got ugly. Everybody else more or less braced for impact. Did Bim have a death wish? What did he think he was doing? Nobody badmouthed Dark, no matter how much they hated them; anyone who did faced dire consequences.

Dark coughed out a laugh. They were clearly surprised at Trimmer's little tantrum, but they looked far from ready to beat his ass.

Is that honestly all you think I think about? they questioned with a small smile.

“Is it not?”

Of course not.

The smile fell away slightly. If anyone had untensed even the slightest amount, they were as braced as ever for what was to come.

If I really only wanted to do away with...him... Dark challenged, don't you think I would have finished the job decades ago?

Everyone's eyes snapped back to Bim, whose face softened when he thought about their question.

Don't you think I've had every opportunity to snap his neck and be done with it?

“...I…”

I'm not here for revenge, Mr. Trimmer. There's more to my being here than that. There's more to me than spending every waking moment of my deathless quasi-existence scowling and shaking my fist. And, frankly, I'm a bit insulted that you would assume that little of me.

A few dirty looks were tossed Bim's way, and he shrank back in his seat under Dark's harmless but intimidating stare.

Have you never considered that coming to these meetings could simply be...relaxing for me? Have you never asked yourself if I ever wanted to get away from the ceaselessness of it all and just have a little fun every so often?

The shock, that had been until now just creeping onto Bim's face, hit him like a brick. What an idiotic thing to assume. What a moron he felt like.

There is more to me than who I was, they explained calmly, turning to the rest of the table. Like it or not, I am not those people. And, like it or not, I want to be seen as someone separate from them. What I've been framed as doesn't even scratch the surface to the rest of me. I am my own person, and I've learned to feel more than just pain and rage. I've grown accustomed to enjoying quite a bit of what Mr. Warfstache has exposed me to -- I wouldn't be able to get used to having any fun if it wasn't for him.

They flashed Wilford a small, lopsided small. The sickly-sweet reporter in return practically lit up like a Christmas tree, both touched that they were being this emotionally vulnerable and relieved they didn't explode over Bim's insensitivity.

So...no, Mr. Trimmer, they concluded, their expression dimming again. I'm not here with any malicious intent, and I'll thank you to not ask me that again. I am not as broken as I've been painted to be.

“Dark…?”

Their eyes floated back over to their equal. So did everyone else's.

“Thank you for your input,” Wil beamed. “Why don'cha go inside and wind down?”

Gladly.

In a flash of black static, Dark was gone as quickly as they had arrived. Wil's attention swung back around to his presentation like a boomerang.

“Alright, anyone else wanna give it a go? I wanna hear what you think how much soap is too much soap…!”