#fuck dreams and fuck emetophobia and honestly fuck life too

[newtness532]

how does the concept of dreams even make sense?

[crossnamara]

little oc things,,,,,,,,,,, tw for uh. murder. and a guy being a little (a lot) fantasy racist. also emetophobia!!

H.: Please, have a seat, Lunar.

L.L.: No. 

H.: I wasn't asking, Lunar. Have. A. Seat.

[small pause] 

[chair creaking as Lunar sits] 

H.: Please, Lunar. I know you can cooperate. This whole... "rebellion" thing, really it isn't helping you, Lulu. 

L.L.: Don't you ever fucking call me that. 

H.: Language, sweetie. Did I hit a nerve there, Lunar? Hm?

L.L.: You have taken... So much from me, and I won't let you take that too.

H.: Hm. Well, in any case, did you really think you got that little plan past me? I thought you were smarter than that. Honestly, I expected better from you, Lunar. With your little escape attempt all those years ago, I thought you would know better not to cross me. Speaking of that, do you like the new decoration? I think it looks beautiful with that little entomology display. Thank you for that, by the way. It really completes the room, don't you think? I wish I could thank you little friend for his contribution. What's his name, Tommy?

L.L.: [under his breath] Shut up. 

H.: What was that? Just because you have those glasses on doesn't mean I can't tell you're looking away. I said look at them. Those are the consequences of your actions, Lunar. The consequences of stupidity. You should learn to have more respect for the people who take care of you.

 L.L.: Take care? Take care? All you do is sit up in this stupid little office all day because you're too much of a coward to actually leave, because you're scared of turning into what you despise.

H.: Lu- L.L.: No, I'm not done. You're not just going to talk over me again. You don't get to steal my childhood- steal my life, steal the lives of everyone here and act like you're taking care of us. You keep our fucking body parts on the wall. 

[He slams fists on the desk as he stands] 

[He picks up a small letter opener from the desk, and starts to walk around it to face her]

You ruined my life. I know this should be about all the other people you've hurt, but I'm fucking selfish. And I don't care. 

H.: [panic creeping into her voice] Now, Lunar, you wouldn't want to do anything rash.. L.L.: You have no idea what I want.

H.: You're right, I don't! So what do you want? Power? Money? I could find your parents, get you some remote home and you could be with them. Don't you want that, Lulu? Don't you want to be happy?

 L.L.: Right now... Right now, I think I just want to do this. 

[L.L. stabs H. in the chest once. She screams.] 

H.: What the hell do you think you're doing?! 

L.L.: The thing I've dreamed about for years.

(Lunar takes something off the wall, a perfectly cleaned and polished tibia, above a neat and shiny plaque that labeled it as belonging to "Child 39 - Linacie". Lunar choked back his vomit and his tears as he grabbed the thing, held it firmly in his hands, and-) [EXTENDED SOUNDS OF BRUTAL LEG MURDER]

--

D.P.: I.... Audio log, recording the research of Elysian counselor Damien Polter. I found a tape. I find a lot of tapes, normally old interview recordings from the 80's, but this looked so much older. Like from the time I first got here. Or, died, I guess. I guess that was why I wasn't shocked when I heard my own voice on here. The following-... The following is the tape recording labeled "AEO Staff Evaluation, Agent Tower 13"

"...: Please state your name and position into the recorder. 

D.P.: (cold, harsh monotone) Damani Percival, guard. 

...: Thank you, Mr. Percival. Now, you have been exemplary in your performance in your current position, and the Annis Ebony Organization believes that you deserve a promotion. You will be transferred to a different department and a slight raise in salary. D.P.: (slightly less monotone) Thank you, sir, I accept the offer.

...: This was not as offer, Percival, it was an order. This was the very first branch of this organization, a humble little place called Camp Anomaly in the Uncanny Valley. Don't let the name fool you, though. The things there are vile, vicious creatures and- (heavy static)" 

D.P.: I... I know that was my voice. That's not my name, I don't remember that- I think I need a minute. (tape clicks off)

D.P.: God, I... I found more about this... Damani Percival. A diary entry, dated in March of 1939. I don't know if I can.... I will read it out, so I have an audio copy of this... File. I want to burn it. 

"March 3rd, 1939 Another one of those things attacked me today. I don't know why they insist that they are people, they are not even civilized enough to be considered animals. They are beasts, and deserve to be caged away from innocents. It is difficult to write now, as it bit my left hand, but I was able to put that thing in its place. The body was incinerated, a waste of energy if you ask me."

D.P.: I'm left-handed. I have a scar in the shape of a.... Human bite, on that hand. I want to believe that there is no way that this cruel man could have been me, but I don't know if I can deny it. I can't let the others find out. I don't want to lie to them, but... I don't want them to hate me, they can't hate me. (short pause) I'll do more research into this, but um. End of this recording, I guess. (tape clicks off)

@justa-regularuser ha get tagged idiot

[sexbirthdeaths]

her hollows, her unholy son

summary: because this - this isn’t hotch's job. his job is to make sure they don’t get killed out on the field, to make sure they do their job and that they finish all their paperwork, not give his agents haircuts in his office,

warnings: emetophobia (vomiting), panic attacks, implications of depression and anxiety, mentions of spencer’s dad

words: 2500

The walls feel like they’re collapsing in on him as he stumbles numbly to sit down, lean against the cool tile and just desperately attempt to breathe. He can feel his heartbeat thrumming through him, head to toe, down his fingers like an invisible thread strung along them. Leaning his head down onto his knees, he feels himself curl in on his body, wraps his arms around himself.

Scrunching his eyes tight at the thought, he pulls his legs in a bit closer. You're an idiot, he thinks, can't do shit without freaking out.

He wishes he didn't live alone.

Everything is spiralling around him, water whirlpooling down a drain and he’s trapped right in its eye. All he can do is wait it out, he figures, try to force himself to breathe steadily. But god, it’s so hard, like there’s a boot on his chest pressing down further and further, crushing him under cruel rubber.

There’s this sickening sensation in his stomach, like a rock at the bottom that’s pulling him down further and further, churning as it sends waves of nausea through him. Forcing himself up, he fumbles for the toilet and collapses in front of it, emptying the contents of his stomach. So much for dinner, he thinks bitterly, dizzy and vision blurred.

Scrunching his eyes tightly closed, Spencer moves to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand, not even caring anymore. The taste of bile and now-regurgiated takeout sits sour on his tongue, but he can’t will himself to stand and wash it from his mouth. Too much energy, energy he doesn’t have right now.

This is a panic attack - he’s never had one before, he's read enough about them to know what triggers them, to know how to help himself. Five things you can see, he recalls as the first step, but he can’t will himself to open his eyes. Four things you can hear is the next step -

One. The sound of his panicked breath as it racks through his body in quick, shallow waves.

Two. The humming of the light above him, too loud.

Three. The air con that's sending a cool breeze around him, chills him to the bone.

Four. Fuck- fuck- what’s four? The sound of blood in his ears, heart thudding in his chest.

That’s four, that’s four, why doesn’t he feel any better?

Another wave of nausea overcomes Spencer, forcing him over the toilet bowl again. His hair falls past his ears, over his face as he retches, tears streaming down his face at the sensation in his throat and stomach. It’s more bile than food this time, he supposes he really hadn’t eaten that much. It’s hard to have an appetite these days

His hair is bile-soaked now. His stupid goddamn hair, he’s wanted to cut it off for years but he can't find the energy to get up, go to a barber's. Just the thought sends a rush of panic through him.

Though his chest still heaves, Spencer's breathing has fallen back into a steadier rhythm, he feels less like he’s suffocating. With weak knees, he pushes himself up from the toilet, wipes his mouth again. And he faces himself in the mirror.

Pale and clammy, his skin has taken on a ghostly sheen that’d only worsened by the unflattering warmth of the bathroom lights. The contours of his face are more prominent under the harsh glare, the hollows of his cheeks and deep violet valleys beneath his eyes. His dark hair is a mess, clumped together with vomit at the front. You’re supposed to be better than this, he thinks bitterly, you’re an FBI agent, not some weak child who can’t handle being alone.

The person in the mirror isn’t him. It looks like him, sure, it walks and talks like him but it- it isn’t him. He wants to just throw a sheet over it, cover it, out of sight out of mind, and it takes everything in him not to shatter the glass then and there. He feels sick, he feels sick, sick in a way that’s bone-deep, something needs to change and it needs to change now. He feels like he might die if it doesn’t.

So Spencer rummages through the medicine drawer, finds a pair of craft scissors they only keep in there for opening stubborn packaging, brandishes them with certainty. He’s been dreaming of this moment for months now. Of chopping off chunks of hair, pulling it by the fistful, dowsing his scalp in gasoline to watch it all burn, anything if it means it’s gone.

When he was a kid, his dad had used the word 'defiant' a lot. Defiant, as in going against orders, as in questioning his judgement, defiant as in refusing to go down easy. Where has this new you come from? he would keep asking, expecting some sort of concrete answer - what has changed? What part of you have I failed to control, allowed to become so overgrown that it the ivy has swallowed up everything good?

But pruning is a means of growth, he thinks, and he lifts the scissors to his head.

There’s a chunk of hair in his hand. A few inches, maybe, what’s left on his head just curling past his ears. He drops it, watches it fall into the sink, bright and dry and gone. The scissors are shitty, and they don’t cut through hair evenly or easily, but they’re better than nothing.

He’s crying again before he even knows it, and he isn’t quite sure why, but the tears are rolling down his cheeks as he keeps cutting, throwing fistfuls of hair down into the sink, the stench of vomit still in his nose and the taste of spite on his tongue. He’s crying, but maybe they’re happy tears. It’s oddly cathartic, all of this.

It takes a long while to cut it all, get it even semi-even, but he manages. The street lamps outside his apartment have turned on by the time he creeps out of the bathroom, hair shaggy and shorter, and it gives him this rush. Taking control, finally reclaiming this part of himself. It tastes of rebirth, revival, a life that arises from rain-soaked earth, of becoming new again.

He goes to sleep with a smile on his face. It's the first time in years.

When he gets up for work in the morning, the house is empty. It's never not empty, he thinks as he eats breakfast alone, he doesn't know why he hasn't gotten used to the quiet after all these years. He wears a hat on the subway, knowing the haircut isn’t the cleanest, but atleast he doesn’t get those looks anymore. Having no eyes on you makes you feel so… light, he realises.

Stepping into the elevator, there’s a peaceful quiet to the building this early in the mornings, only a few people in sight. There's a peaceful quiet, one more comforting than the silence that suffocates his apartment. He likes to get to work earlier than the others, so it's no surprise he's the only one there - besides Hotch, of course.

Stepping into the communal area, Spencer is met with the sight of Hotch and Rossi, talking quietly by the coffee machine. From their stiff body language, it’s probably just business - some business higher up, likely Strauss. Hotch's eyes meet his from across the floor but quickly drifts to his hair instead.

“Excuse me, Rossi,” he says to the older agent, who takes his queue to leave. He gives Spencer a knowing look as he departs, stalking off to his own office to spend the rest of the morning until the day officially begins.

Hotch hums, peers down at him with a steely glance.

“You cut your hair.”

“Yes, sir,” Spencer nods, unable to hide his smile. He combs his fingers through it. Hotch chuckles shortly, raises an eyebrow.

“You didn’t do that bad, honestly. But I can fix it for you - come on,”

So he guides Spencer away from the coffee machine, down the halls and into Hotch's office, somewhere a little more private. The shutters are drawn, door locked, and Spencer looks guiltily at the floor - what if someone needs Hotch? And he's busy, here, giving his subordinate a haircut?

Hotch pulls up a chair and sits Spencer down on it, facing the window where he can see the streets of DC, the thick morning fog of early spring.

“It won’t be long,” the agent promises as he drapes an old dress shirt over Spencer's shoulders, “I’m no barber, but I can atleast even it out.”

There’s a strange feeling in Spencer's chest, but it isn’t the same as last night. It doesn’t feel crushed tight, like his lungs are bound to collapse in any moment - if anything, he just feels light. He feels appreciated, he thinks, hearing Hotch's search for a pair of scissors in the drawers. When was the last time someone had done something like this for him? Something beyond obligation, because they just wanted to help?

“You didn’t have to do this,” he murmurs as he feels Hotch get closer behind him, run a hand through his hair, “It isn’t your job to take care of me like this.”

Hotch starts cutting, the sound of the metal scissors slicing through his hair ringing in his ears. The only other sound is the clock ticking in the background, steady and echoing in the loud, silent room.

“No,” the man agrees, “It isn’t. But I’m curious as to why you did it.”

“I needed a change.” It’s the rain that washes the slate clean - gives him a chance to start over, beginning the path of reclaiming himself bit-by-bit. He's felt so helpless all of his life, taking the backseat and watching it all unfold. And one day - likely, soon, given the dangers of this job - he'll die and he’ll die young, with no agency over his life, too scared to try and take it. He’s done being scared.

The clock ticks, filling the silence as Hotch seems to contemplate. He’s moved from the right side of Spencer's head to the left, and the boy can feel chunks of hair fall onto the shirt on his shoulders.

"Do you think the others will like it?"

"I hope," Spencer admits, "I hope."

Hotch tilts his head down, touch unusually gentle for the typically stoic, blunt man. He can see strands of dark hair on his clothes, a tangible recognition of the new control he has over his life. It’s the best high he could ever experience, one he’ll be riding for months.

“I always thought you liked having long hair, I kind of figured if you didn’t you’d cut it,”

“My mom likes my long hair. She always wanted a girl,” Spencer mumbles absentmindedly. "I've just never had the energy to change it." Hotch hums in thought.

“You know,” he starts, “You’re stretching so far you’ve lost sight of where you started.”

He tilts Spencer's head again, leans to cut the hair short by his ear - it’s difficult to get it close to the skin without clippers, but he can make do. He bites his tongue between his teeth as he tries to avoid clipping Spencer's ear.

“Maybe you don’t hate your hair, or yourself for that matter - you hate what it proves.”

“It doesn’t prove anything.” Spencer huffs indignantly, brushes hair from his lap absentmindedly.

“It proves that you don't have control. Something's holding your life over your head. This is your act of reclamation, Reid, and I have to commend you for it.”

There’s a long silence as Spencer mulls his words over. He can hear more and more of his colleagues arriving in the bullpen, laughing as they talk. He can hear JJ, who’d been the first to notice how long his hair was getting. And yeah - he’ll admit, having long hair was fun at times, but not when it was unkempt and dirty because he couldn't muster up the energy to wash it.

Hotch brushes the rest of his hair off of the towel and onto the floor, runs a hand through Spencer's trimmed hair.

“I’m done, Reid, you can stand up."

He doesn’t know how to say thank you in a way that sounds genuine. Because this - this isn’t Hotch's job. His job is to make sure they don’t get killed out on the field, to make sure they do their job and that they finish all their paperwork, not give his agents haircuts in his office, not treat them with the same love and attention as a son.

He wants to cry.

But instead, Spencer swallows down the lump in his throat, fights the tears, and just smiles.

“Thank you,” he says, and prays that Hotch understands what he isn’t able to say.

[sunflowerhoney]

Can you answer all 100 of the questions? I know it’s a lot but I figured it would be a fun relaxing distraction 🥺🥺💕💕

-🍓

Of course!! thank you so much for asking darling, youre the best 🥺 <3

1. What is you middle name?

Kathleen

2. How old are you?

26

3. When is your birthday?

March 19th

4. What is your zodiac sign?

Pisces

5. What is your favorite color?

Light blue

6. What’s your lucky number?

319

7. Do you have any pets?

2 cats!

8. Where are you from?

USA

9. How tall are you?

5’6”

10. What shoe size are you?

9 or 9.5

11. How many pairs of shoes do you own?

Maybe 7 or 8 I think?

12. What was your last dream about?

Good question 😅 i have weird dreams but I tend to forget them quickly

13. What talents do you have?

Ah I’m not sure that I have many haha, I used to be able to play viola but I haven’t in ages and I write a little bit but not well

14. Are you psychic in any way?

Not that I know of :o

15. Favorite song?

Sunflower by Rex Orange County

16. Favorite movie?

Carol

17. Who would be your ideal partner?

Gwendolyn Briggs 😂

18. Do you want children?

I honestly don’t know tbh

19. Do you want a church wedding?

No definitely not lol

20. Are you religious?

Nope

21. Have you ever been to the hospital?

Not like as a patient but I’ve been to hospitals to visit family members

22. Have you ever got in trouble with the law?

I got a ticket once if that counts lol

23. Have you ever met any celebrities?

I met Lea DeLaria (from OITNB) at an event at my college once!

24. Baths or showers?

Showers

25. What color socks are you wearing?

Pink

26. Have you ever been famous?

Nope

27. Would you like to be a big celebrity?

No, I’m way too shy 😅 I think it would be very stressful

28. What type of music do you like?

Lots of different types tbh: indie, alternative, pop, ska, pop punk, I tend to just listen to any random song I like regardless of the type

29. Have you ever been skinny dipping?

Yes once 🙈 with a friend when I was in college

30. How many pillows do you sleep with?

3

31. What position do you usually sleep in?

Usually curled up on my side

32. How big is your house?

I live in a one bedroom apartment so not very big haha

33. What do you typically have for breakfast?

I don’t typically eat breakfast, eating early in the day makes me feel gross :(

34. Have you ever fired a gun?

No

‘

35. Have you ever tried archery?

Yes!! At summer camp when I was a kid, it was actually so fun! :o

36. Favorite clean word?

Purring (because cats!)

37. Favorite swear word?

Fuck! Lol

38. What’s the longest you’ve ever gone without sleep?

A little less than 24 hours

39. Do you have any scars?

Yes

40. Have you ever had a secret admirer?

You before you came off anon? 👀 hehe

41. Are you a good liar?

Depends on the situation, I tend to get too nervous haha

42. Are you a good judge of character?

More so than I used to be I think

43. Can you do any other accents other than your own?

Not really, at least not well at least lol

44. Do you have a strong accent?

I don’t think so! I say some words with an accent though

45. What is your favorite accent?

I’m not sure if I have a favorite :o

46. What is your personality type?

INFJ

47. What is your most expensive piece of clothing?

I honestly have no idea tbh

48. Can you curl your tongue?

Only a little tiny bit haha

49. Are you an innie or an outie?

Innie

50. Left or right handed?

Right handed (except for when I play softball, I bat left handed)

51. Are you scared of spiders?

Not if they’re small, big spiders freak me out though

52. Favorite food?

Onion Rings

53. Favorite foreign food?

Sushi

54. Are you a clean or messy person?

Somewhere in the middle

55. Most used phrased?

I’m not sure :o (maybe thats my most used phrase lol)

56. Most used word?

Probably “hi” or something like that 😅

57. How long does it take for you to get ready?

Depends where I’m going, usually like 30-40 minutes

58. Do you have much of an ego?

No I don’t think so, I’m wildly insecure

59. Do you suck or bite lollipops?

Uhm both I think? Like I bite them but not until they’re really small haha

60. Do you talk to yourself?

Yes lol

61. Do you sing to yourself?

Yes, especially in the car

62. Are you a good singer?

Not really 😅

63. Biggest Fear?

This is probably weird but I have emetophobia so throwing up lol

64. Are you a gossip?

Honestly a bit lmao but not in a malicious way I’m just really nosy

65. Best dramatic movie you’ve seen?

Carol? If that counts haha

66. Do you like long or short hair?

On myself, long hair (I hate the way my hair looks short lol)

67. Can you name all 50 states of America?

Yes lol only because I learned a song about it as a kid and never forgot it 😂

68. Favorite school subject?

English

69. Extrovert or Introvert?

Introvert

70. Have you ever been scuba diving?

I have not

71. What makes you nervous?

Driving on really big highways/in bad traffic, interviews, feeling like I’m trapped, being in the middle of a row of seats (like in a movie theater)

72. Are you scared of the dark?

Only if I’m somewhere unfamiliar

73. Do you correct people when they make mistakes?

Not usually unless its going to benefit them to be corrected, I wouldn’t just correct someone to embarrass them or anything like that

74. Are you ticklish?

Yeah a bit

75. Have you ever started a rumor?

Not that I can think of

76. Have you ever been in a position of authority?

Kind of at work?

77. Have you ever drank underage?

Yes

78. Have you ever done drugs?

If weed counts as a drug then yes, if not then no lol

79. Who was your first real crush?

Some random person I went to school with lol

80. How many piercings do you have?

Just one on each ear

81. Can you roll your Rs?“

A little bit

82. How fast can you type?

Actually pretty fast!

83. How fast can you run?

A lot slower than I can type 😂

84. What color is your hair?

Brown

85. What color is your eyes?

Brown

86. What are you allergic to?

Nothing really I don’t think, I was allergic to pollen when I was a kid but I haven’t had any allergy symptoms in years so I guess I’m not anymore?? Lol

87. Do you keep a journal?

I don’t but I keep meaning to start

88. What do your parents do?

My mom works for a non profit, my stepdad works in a grocery store

89. Do you like your age?

Mostly, I’m happy to have the independence that I didn’t have when I was younger but sometimes I’m like ah adult life scary

90. What makes you angry?

Rude people, close minded people, getting taken advantage of, people who are mean to people I care about

91. Do you like your own name?

Not really, I wish I had a less common name

92. Have you already thought of baby names, and if so what are they?

Nope, I can’t even decide if I want kids or not lol

93. Do you want a boy a girl for a child?

I don’t really have a preference

94. What are you strengths?

I’m a good listener, I try to be understanding, I’m usually pretty organized

95. What are your weaknesses?

Procrastinating, second guessing myself, being majorly insecure

96. How did you get your name?

It was the only girl name my Mom and Dad could agree on 😂

97. Were your ancestors royalty?

Not that I’m aware of haha

98. Do you have any scars?

Yes

99. Color of your bedspread?

Dark red

100. Color of your room?

White

[stakehammer]

no light, no light

a revelation in the light of day: you can’t choose what stays and what fades away.

WARNING FOR EMETOPHOBIA!! big ole throwup in this one. also vaguely unsettling horrorterror stuff.

HEIR.

They come to you every night. You are not being overdramatic. Ever since you’ve left your home timeline, not a single night has passed that they weren’t bothering you. They always come in that very moment between sleeping and waking, an inhuman screeching somewhere between your temples, yet silent to everyone else. Sometimes, you sleep, and they talk to you in your dreams. Sometimes, you stay awake until the mornings and try to reason with them, mumbling to yourself on Karkat’s couch.

Those days are over now. You and Karkat are a mostly undefined thing now, and you get to sleep in his bed. You throw him a glance, sleeping peacefully next to you, and sigh. Mouthing silently at the ceiling, you say, What?

THIS IS THE LAST STRAW.

You make a face. What’s that even supposed to mean. They, too, have a penchant for the dramatic, of course, being old Eldritch gods that once granted you all of their power for a revenge mission. They still grant you some, because they think you are useful to them, and you think they are useful to you. Communication, however, is not always easy.

Huh? you mouth this time, which really just looks like you opening your mouth in incomprehension.

YOU WILL RETURN HOME. YOU WILL STOP THE PRINCE.

Your eyes burn when you roll them. You are fucking tired, and yet, this doesn’t sound like a conversation you’ll be able to skip. You throw Karkat another glance, then quietly roll out of bed and slip on a hoodie. Only once you’ve closed his bedroom door behind you and are padding through the living room do you answer, voice as low as possible, “Stop him from what? He went to one board meeting. I can forgive that.”

HEIR. YOU DON’T HONESTLY BELIEVE THAT.

Again, you grimace. Yeah, maybe you don’t. And maybe you don’t want to care. Maybe you want to stay here in a different timeline with a guy who wants to date you and fucked you silly on his kitchen counter. Maybe that’s been better than hanging around your home and trying to get the billionaires to stop exploiting the entire rest of the world. That doesn’t really sound unreasonable to you.

“I want to stay here,” you mutter, both of your hands buried in the front pocket of your hoodie. “He’s not… Dirk doesn’t seem completely off the shits yet, and if he was, I would not fucking care. Let me stay here.”

THIS IS THE LAST STRAW.

“Yes, you already said that. What does it mean?” You want to roll your eyes at them again, but before you can get that far, you’re blinded for a full second by white hot pain in your right temple. Instead, you squeeze your eyes shut, barely fighting back a shout so you don’t wake Karkat. Instinctively, you stumble toward the bathroom, one hand pressed to your head, the other one pawing around for the faucet. The pain fades as quickly as it came, but you still feel groggy in its wake, and reach down to drink water from your hands.

GO BACK TONIGHT AND DEAL WITH HIM SOON, OR THERE WILL BE CONSEQUENCES.

“What consequences,” you mutter, hoarsely, in between gulps.

THE PRINCE HAS BECOME TOO POWERFUL. NO HUMAN CHILD WILL DECIDE ALONE OVER LIFE AND DEATH. ONLY WHEN THE HEIR RETURNS TO THWART HIM CAN WE BEGIN TO RESTORE BALANCE.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” you say, water droplets flying as you wave your hand around dismissively. “We have been over that. What consequences?”

AN HEIR OF LIGHT WHO REFUSES TO DO HIS WORK

(They make a dramatic pause.)

IS NOT AN HEIR OF LIGHT AT ALL.

You say, “I don’t know what that means.” The very next second, your entire body seizes up violently. You choke out a noise, gasping for breath, your hands grabbing the edge of the sink as you feel your insides convulse, shoulders spasming as something seems to claw its way up your throat. Fruitlessly, you try to speak, to swear, to yell for Karkat, your mouth opening and closing but no sound coming out. Your hands slip and your legs give out and you drop to the cold bathroom tiles, and as you land on your back, for one terrible blink of an eye, you think you’re dying.

Whatever is crawling up your throat is blocking your windpipe, but it falls forward when your body throws itself to the side, clawing at the gaps between the tiles until you’ve worked yourself up on your knees. You retch, your elbows quivering, your eyes burning, breath stuck in your lungs as a thick glob of black sludge wrestles itself out of your mouth and lands on the floor with a wet splat. You suck in a breath, try to close your mouth, try to swallow down, but more is on its way, and you shiver from head to toe instead.

Sticky black mass keeps splattering from your mouth, pooling on the floor in front of you until the puddle is almost two feet across. You feel empty in a strange way -- you’ve thrown up plenty of times in your life, and you’re familiar with the empty stomach feeling it usually leaves. This one isn’t located there. It seems to be in your chest, in the hollows of your ribs, in your core. Whatever climbed out of you just now left a hole that feels cold, and desolate in you.

Quaking, you raise one hand to wipe at your mouth. Right as you move, the mass moves as well, rising off the floor in a writhing tangle of tendrils, and you watch the splot you wiped from your mouth detach itself from the back of your hand and join it. Still on your knees, as you sit back on your haunches, the inky blob hovers a few feet above you, tangling within itself, tentacles disappearing and reappearing at random, in constant motion. When it speaks, its voice has finally stopped resonating within your head -- it’s outside of you now. They’ve left you.

SO LONG AS YOU DON’T FOLLOW YOUR CALLING, HEIR. YOU DON’T DESERVE THESE POWERS. WE HAVE TAKEN THEM.

You say, “What the fuck?” Your voice is scratchy and hurts in your throat, but coughing now only sounds like an invitation for more vomit, actual one from your stomach this time. “I didn’t get my powers from you. I got them from the game. You can’t take them.”

Convinced of this much, figuring that the horrorterrors might leave your body but you’ll always have your godtier powers, you feel yet another cold shiver of dread rush down your back as a faint light seems to blink on inside the black mass above you. That’s just for show, you think, they’re conning you, so you try to use what the game gave you, you try to turn into light, you try to procure even the faintest of glows, and it doesn’t work. You have the same powers any other guy outside on the streets has.

THIS IS THE POWER WE WIELD. WE, AND ONLY WE, SHALL BE RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT HAPPENS TO THE PEOPLE OF YOUR UNIVERSE.

“What happened to establishing balance?” you mutter, running a shaky hand through your hair. “Look, did you seriously just take away my godhood? To make me start shit with Dirk? The guy who could kill everyone except for me, because I was protected by Light? How is this going to motivate me to ever set foot in that dumpster fire of a timeline again?”

YOU WILL SOON REALIZE YOUR NEED. WE WILL NOT ALLOW OUR HEIR TO FIGHT THE PRINCE IN THIS STATE. HOWEVER YOU MUST RE-PROVE YOUR WORTHINESS. GO HOME, JOHN LALONDE. PICK UP THE WORK YOU SO FOOLISHLY LEFT BEHIND. AND ONCE WE SEE THE RICH FALL, YOU WILL SEE THE LIGHT AGAIN.

The air makes a weirdly wet pop when it closes around the space the mass leaves when it disappears. You’re on your knees in Karkat’s bathroom, staring into nothingness. You don’t… You don’t need your powers. They can keep them, then. This is idiotic.

Slowly, you reach up for the sink and pull yourself up, standing on two uneasy legs so you can look at yourself in the mirror. The white streak in your hair is still there, but so is the awful emptiness in your chest. You don’t need your powers, you think. Your hand travels up to the side of your neck, bitten and bruised by Karkat’s vampire fangs. You’ve been letting him feed on your blood for the past weeks, knowing that you’re protected both by conditional immortality and by inhuman luck, so even if he wasn’t as cautious as he is, he couldn’t kill you.

He could, now.

He’d never forgive himself.

You wrinkle your nose. Karkat lets you live here for free, but you get your own food, your own clothes. If you stay for longer, you’re going to want to start chipping in for rent, or at least water and electricity. You have no source of income, because you’ve been living off of gambling winnings, which, again, you got due to your luck, and your convenient knowledge. 

Okay, so you’ll have to start living a slightly less risky life. You’ll manage. You’ll adapt. Living a risk-free life was exactly what pushed you into immortality ennui before, but… Well, you won’t be immortal anymore.

You turn to stare at the door, toward the rest of the apartment, where Karkat is hopefully still asleep, somewhere. He’s immortal. You’ve been living with the comfort of that. Immortality was going to be something you could be tackling together.

Your head feels light, in a way you don’t enjoy. Whenever the Light would pump you full of knowledge, it would hurt, it would knock you out for days and you would hate it, but you’re already missing the place it inhabited up there. Knowing that you will not know things whenever it’s convenient for you in the future is disconcerting, to say the least. You are not a smart man. You make people believe you are, but you know that you’re not. Not without Light.

When you sit down on the edge of Karkat’s bed, you feel sick again, but this time you know it’s just your stomach. You watch him stir awake, watch the worry creep into his features when he sees you, and you give him a defeated smile.

“It’s time,” you say. “We need to go home.”