#fuck living in the desert. ive gotta be here for like another year D-:

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[always-and-forever-a-killjoy]

Good morning fuckers, after a brief fluffy break, I’m back on my angsty bullshit. This time, I’m tormenting...guess who...

Yeah, it’s Cherri Cola. 

Anyways! Please pay careful attention to the warnings this time, this is incredibly dark and I want you all to be safe. Also Newsie and him have a sibling dynamic because fuck you (no, really because I want fun sibling dynamics.)

Title: all the smiles that are ever gonna haunt me

Wordcount: 2910

Summary: Cherri Cola has seen too much to want to survive this world. Luckily for him, his family wants him to live, and so do a snarky bird deity and a trio of teenagers.

Aka the story of how Cherri Cola met the Fabulous Four before there were even four of them, and learned a few valuable lessons along the way. 

Warnings: Suicidal thoughts, a suicide attempt, hospitals, blood, flashbacks, self-harm, injury, mentions of addiction, (very brief) mentions of needles.

Taglist: @wishiwasthemoon-tonight @sleevesareforlosers @stressed-depressed-emo-mess @tasteofamnesia (message me, send an ask, or reblog/reply to one of my posts if you want to be added or removed)

AO3 Link

(Actual fic under the cut)

Cherri Cola stared at the door of the radio station, hyperaware of the sunlight that filtered through the cracks even as he tuned out the rest of the world, slumped on the floor of the station. Darkness, it was always darkness. He was always trapped in the dark somehow. But the sunlight was worse. Sunlight was worse. 

He didn’t know who or what he was trying to convince as his nails sunk into his arms. It felt like suffocating; the darkness was endless and filled with thorns that kept him in. The memories never left and the deeds he had done could never be paid for. Not if he lived a hundred years or a thousand. He didn’t deserve to live that long anyways.

He stared at the door, the faint beams of sunlight filtering around the edges. Maybe he should get up and walk out that door. Let the sunlight take him, see how long it took him to die in the desert heat. Maybe he didn’t deserve to live at all.

No. You promised D you wouldn’t. He ranked his nails down his arms, digging deeply enough to leave welts. You. Promised. A promise was a promise. He couldn’t leave Dr. Death Defying. He couldn’t leave NewsAGoGo.

Cherri didn’t realize how deeply he had been digging his nails until the scratches on his wrists started to bleed. Blood. It always came back to blood, didn’t it? Blood of someone he had called sister, pooling around her as he sobbed. Blood of his friends, lying too still on the battlefield and in the sand and on beds in the hospital in Zone 2. Blood of the dracs he had killed, splattered all over him. His own blood, running down his forearms and coating his hands just like the blood of all the innocents who fell to his ray gun.

Suddenly filled with a new surge of energy, he climbed to his feet. Almost mechanically, he went through the motions of putting the poem he had been working on before this all away, knowing how much it bothered D when he left his poetry everywhere. It took longer than it normally would have, his movements slowed by the pain on his wrists and his general lethargy, but it felt like only a second before everything was neatly stowed away.

Cherri Cola looked at the door, squared his shoulders, and walked out into the light.

He walked. And walked. And walked and walked. (And walked.) To his surprise, the sunlight didn’t promise relief like it had always seemed to. All it promised was a harsh death.

Not that Cherri minded that much either. 

He lost track of the hours, lost track of the days after far too little. There was no change in the landscape, not once he got far enough that the radio station was out of sight. The sunlight never seemed to let up, only briefly pausing while he slept. Summertime was the worst time of the year in the desert, it was universally agreed, but the only difference it made to him was more hours of daylight. More scorching sun as his throat grew dry and the desert started to warp around him. Heatstroke, he had the capacity to think still, even as he staggered and fell. Well, this is the end.

He wondered if the Phoenix Witch would come to claim him. Probably not, unless someone put his mask in the mailbox. He knew Newsie knew where it was; she was the only one who knew where his mask and ray gun were stashed. Newsie. His mind could conjure up all too vividly the image of his friend holding the pink mask in her hands, placing it in the mailbox with a whisper of a prayer. Would Newsie cry for him? A tiny, selfish part of him hoped so, hoped he would be missed, but the logical, ruthless side of his mind pointed out that he was just…Cola. Just an old wavehead who could never escape his own mind. A killer, a Ritalin rat, nothing but a worthless excuse for a sibling and a friend. That part hoped Newsie wouldn’t shed a tear. He didn’t deserve her grief. He had abandoned her.

He had abandoned her. Newsie had been almost more of a sister to Cherri than the one he had fought on the battlefields of the Analog Wars, and he had abandoned her. He had left her just like his older sibling had left him, all those many years ago. He was as bad- no, he was worse. His sister had never had a choice. Better Living Industries had taken her and turned her into a weapon, and it had never been her choice at all. It had always been his choice. It had been his choice to fight, to kill and maim and seek vengeance at all costs, his choice to turn to the relief of sunlight and run from what plagued him, and now his choice to leave behind the people he loved.

Cherri scrabbled at the sand, suddenly filled with renewed determination. He owned it to Newsie to try and get back alive, at the very least. He couldn’t just lay here. He had to go, go home to the people he had grown to love.

Getting up didn’t seem to be an option, the shifting sand throwing off what little balance he had and easily overwhelming his spent muscles. Crawling wasn’t any better, that took strength that he didn’t have any longer. So he reached out a hand and inched himself along, slowly and painfully rolling what he thought was back the way he came.

He hardly made it two feet before he collapsed fully again, unable to move himself another inch. No! Get home, I have to get home- 

His eyes fell on taloned(??) feet as he lay in the scorching sand, and he looked up to see a crow-like figure almost crouched above him, tilting her head further than any human should be able to. The Phoenix Witch?

“Am- am I dead?” He croaked.

“Not yet.” His heart surged in hope, despite his earlier wishes, only to be squashed again by her next words. “You’re dying, though.”

“No! I can’t- I- Newsie.”

The Witch’s smile was not kind. “Why are you so upset, huh? Isn’t this what you wanted? Or,” she went on mercilessly, “have you realized there is a point to staying alive after all?”

Cherri shoved down his pride. “There’s a point and-“ he coughed, sand getting into his mouth. “-that point is my sister.”

“Your sister is dead, hon.” She let out a small cackle of amusement as he tried to speak again, finding it even harder than before. “I know who you meant, Cherri Cola. And I know exactly where she is right now, and what she’s doing.”

“What- what is she-“

“Looking for you, sugar. They all are. You’ve got the radio crew in a stir, as people say, all ‘cause you couldn’t blow your brains out like a normal person. Lucky for you though, and them, seeing as you’re not dead yet.”

“Well I’m not dying. Not-“ cough “-not until I can see my sister again.”

“You’ll see one of your sisters if you’re dead,” The Phoenix Witch shrugged.

“I’m still-“ cough “-not dying.”

“Stubborn one, aren’t you? Especially for someone who didn’t care if he lived or not just hours ago.” She tapped him on the forehead. “I’ll let you in on a secret, Cherri Cola. You don’t want to die. You want to not be in pain any longer. And to you, those seem like the same thing. But this isn’t the only route out of your grief, and it’s certainly not a painless one for the people around you. They care, you know.”

“Really?”

“Of course they do. Dumbass. NewsAGoGo cried when she realized you were gone, and so did your beloved Dr. Death Defying. They’ll be hurt worse once they realize you really are dead.”

Guilt swirled in his stomach. “I’m not dead. And-“ cough “-I’m not going to be.”

“Honey, you’re on death’s doorstep. Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to see me.” She seemed to take pity on him, kneeling next to him and brushing some of the sand away so he could speak better. “I’ll make you a deal, though, a one-time sort of offer. I won’t take you yet, and I’ll make sure you live, on one condition: you have to give me something.”

“What?”

“Anything. I want something that means something to you, though. A piece of your soul, as it were.”

It took him a moment, but “Would a bracelet do?”

“Only if it means something to you.”

“Newsie made it for me.”

She seemed to consider his offer for a moment before swiping the bracelet from his wrist. “Very well, Cherri Cola. Enjoy however many more years of life this will buy you.”

The last thing he saw was a swirl of crow feathers before the world went dark.

-

He woke up briefly who knew how long later to a redhead teen leaning over him, tilting their head. 

“Nah, I think he’s dead, Jet.”

“He looks pretty dead to me.”

“No, shh, Kobes, Party. I swear I saw him move.”

“Nah, he’s gotta be dead.”

“I swear! He was moving, and look, I think he’s breathing!”

Cherri did his best to move his head and hoped they caught on, but even that small movement sent a surge of dizziness through him, and he blacked out again before he could hear any more of the teenagers’ conversation.

-

When he woke up for the second time, he was lying on a somewhat uncomfortable bed in a room he had never seen before, and everything on his entire body hurt. There was an IV stabbed into his arm, and his forearms were neatly bandaged, which made him think this must be a hospital. It certainly wasn’t the radio station.

The person who poked his head into the room a few minutes later confirmed Cherri’s suspicions, as he was quite clearly a medic. “Oh, you’re awake!”

Cherri managed a tired nod as the medic came fully into the room.

“How are you feeling?”

“In a fair bit of pain, but I’ll live.”

“Hmm. Anything in particular, or no?”

Cherri shook his head, and the medic offered a grin. 

“You’re not going to be having a great time of it, sorry about that. Almost dying of heatstroke will do that to you. You’re pretty lucky your friends got you here in time. Oh, and I’m Max, by the way. Your name is?”

“Cherri Cola. My friends brought me in?”

“Well, I’m assuming they’re your friends, anyways. Redhead kid with a smirk like the devil, tall blond kid, and that guy with a really nice smile?” Cherri was reasonably certain he had never met those kids in his life. “No?”

“Huh. Well, anyways, I’ll send them in once I finish my checks, they might be able to explain more than I can.”

True to Max’s word, a few minutes later, a redhead with a smirk like the devil, a tall blond kid, and a brown-haired kid with a friendly smile walked in.

He felt like he should probably say hello or something, but the redhead spoke before he could. “So who the fuck are you, anyways?”

“That’s a good question. Haven’t quite worked out the answer to that one yet, but my name is Cherri Cola if that’s what you’re asking. He/him.”

“Fucking fantastic. So we picked up a random stranger and waited at the hospital for him to wake up.”

The tallest one, the one with a friendly smile, sighed. “Sorry about Poison, they’re mad that the medics made us wait here because there would be no one else to visit you and pick you up when you were healed. I’m Jet Star, by the way. They/them or he/him.”

“Kobra Kid,” The blonde said. “He/him.”

“And I’m Party Poison,” declared the one who had demanded to know who Cherri was. “They/them.”

“Well, uh, nice to meet you. Thank you for taking me to the hospital, I suppose.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, not even us would leave some guy lying there.”

“We almost did, but that’s because we thought you were dead,” Kobra Kid chimed in. He bore a distinct resemblance to Party Poison, both in face and voice, and Cherri was starting to wonder if they were related.

He shook that thought off, trying to focus on what was most important right now. “How long until I can leave the hospital?”

Jet Star was the one to answer that. “Probably another two days or so, you were in pretty bad shape from what I hear.”

“And you’re going to have some badass scars, apparently,” Kobra Kid agreed.

“And do my friends know I’m here?”

Party Poison snorted. “How should we know? We don’t even know who your friends are.”

“D and Newsie- sorry, Dr. Death Defying and NewsAGoGo?”

“Radio DJs, right? We know of them, but we’ve got no real way to contact them,” Party Poison told him.

“We can drive you where you need to go, though, once they release you,” Jet Star offered kindly. 

“That would be great, thank you guys so much.” 

-

So two days later, Cherri Cola was being bustled into the back of an old trans am by three teenagers. Party Poison was driving, and Kobra Kid had claimed shotgun, leaving Jet Star to sit in the back with Cherri. He didn’t mind that, as they seemed the most friendly. He even found himself chatting a bit with them as the siblings (turned out they were, in fact, related) laughed and debated in the front.

“So how long have you been out here?” Cherri asked. That tended to be a fairly safe question- killjoys didn’t talk about their past in Battery City, typically, but how long someone had been out in the Zones was a much safer topic.

“Maybe…fifteen years? I was born out here,” Jet Star explained. “So I don’t quite know, but I think I’m fifteen or sixteen.”

“Ah.” He felt rather old, suddenly. “I’ve been out here since soon after the Helium Wars ended.”

“Wow,” Jet breathed. “You must have seen a lot.”

Cherri stared at the scars on his hands. “Yeah.”

Jet’s hands were nearly equally scarred, although not the same wavehead scars, as they reached out a hand in understanding. “The Zones aren’t always kind.”

He offered them a wane smile. “No, they’re not.”

That was the end of their conversation, as at that moment, the car screeched to a stop in front of the radio station. 

Party Poison hopped out of the drivers seat and knocked loudly on the door as the rest followed behind.

Said door was opened by Show Pony, looking mildly frazzled. “Hey, sugar! Whatcha need?”

“I think we’ve got your friend.”

Ey looked puzzled for a second, and then eir gaze fell on Cherri, standing behind Party Poison with Jet and Kobra Kid. “Cola! Holy- Destroya, Cola!” Ey pushed past the red-haired teen with ease, skating down to throw eir arms around him. “We thought you’d gotten yourself dusted!”

“Not dusted, I’m afraid,” Cherri mumbled.

“Well, good!” Ey turned to holler back into the radio station. “Newsie! Dr. D! Get out here!”

Newsie’s hurried footsteps echoed from within the radio station, and Cherri’s words stuck in his throat as she froze in the doorway. 

“Hey,” He managed.

“Cherri FUCKING Cola, you complete and utter BASTARD!” 

He winced as Newise hugged him tightly, still swearing at him. “You fucker, you little dipshit, you absolute dumbass, we thought you were dead! We thought you were fucking dead, fuckwad!”

“I’m sorry, Newsie.”

“You better fucking be! Rat bastard!”

That was when Dr. Death Defying arrived, with a lot less swearing and fierce hugging, but certainly some scolding. “You scared all of us half to death, Cherri.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“He was half to death too, but of heatstroke, not of fright,” Kobra Kid contributed (very unhelpfully, in Cherri’s opinion).

“That doesn’t make me feel any fucking better,” Newsie muttered.

“Also, infection and dehydration,” Party Poison added.

Cherri sighed. “Not helping, guys.”

“Who are these fine ‘joys?” Pony asked.

“The Terrific Trio!” Jet cheered. “Well, the name is a work in progress. I’m Jet Star. He/him and they/them.”

“Party Poison. They/them. And I’m in charge.”

Kobra Kid snorted. “Kobra Kid. He/him.”

“They saved my life,” Cherri chimed in.

D offered the three young killjoys a warm smile. “Well, we’re very glad you did. I’m Dr. Death Defying, he/him.”

“NewsAGoGo, she/they.”

“An’ I’m Show Pony. Ey/em.”

Eventually, they all headed inside the radio station, where the trio was given some power pup for their trouble, and Cherri was given a lot of lectures and hugging for his. He would have a lot of explaining to do later, he knew, but he preferred to wait as long as possible to see the worry and fear on his friend’s faces. So just for tonight, he was going to revel in the fact that he was alive and here with his friends. That was the most important thing.

Cherri glanced down at his wrist, which felt strangely empty despite the bandages covering it, and smiled quietly to himself. “Hey, Newsie, what do you think about making another bracelet?”

[littlemonstersau-blog]

The Feels Awaken, Interlude 2: One Rogue Thought

Written by @jkl-fff

PART I - PART II [Interlude] - PART III - PART IV [Interlude] (you are here) - PART V [FINAL]

——————————————————————————————–

Bill, putting DVD back in case: Well, now you’ve seen ‘em all (until they finish the new ones, of which only Renegade 6 will be stupendous, and that largely thanks to everyone dying—much pathos by meatbag standards, much comedy by mine). So … Whaddya think, Fordsy?

Ford, taking in a deep breath: I think … I think I’m personally going to make a working lasercutlass (with SCIENCE!), drive to wherever the hell George Dufas lives—

Bill, helpfully: That would be Skyjogger Ranch, not too far north of San Francisco. I know, because I know lots of things.

Ford: Alright then, I’m going to drive to Skyjogger Ranch, and then I’M GONNA SHOVE MY HOMEMADE LASERCUTLASS RIGHT UP HIS SCRIPT-SPEWING ASS AND ACTIVATE IT!

Stan, startling awake in easy chair: Wha?! Huh?!

Ford: THAT WAS THE BIGGEST WRECK OF TRAINS THAT WERE LOADED WITH ASS-SHIT THAT I’VE EVER SEEN! [rises to his feet, stamps around, gestures emphatically] AND I’VE BEEN TO SEVERAL DIMENSIONS WITH EXTREMELY SHODDY RAILWAY INFRASTRUCTURES AND BOOMING, FERTILIZER-BASED ECONOMIES! MEANING SEVERAL DIMENSIONS WITH FREQUENT AND NOTABLE WRECKS OF ASS-SHIT-LOADED TRAINS!

Stan, rubbing eyes: Yeah, we picked up on your meanin’ there. [yawns, scratches self] What time’s it, anyway?

Bill, grinning at this development: What’d you think of the acting?

Ford: WOODEN! FLAT! LIFELESS! LIKE THIS FLOOR!

Bill: All George Dufas’s fault. Those were all highly acclaimed, highly trained actors, and highly gifted actors. He insisted as Director they act like they didn’t know how to. Like I said before.

Ford: WHAT?! WHY?! RRRAAARRRGHGHGH!

Stan, yawning: Moses, it’s past midnight already …

Bill, egging it on: Heh. And the depiction of non-human meatbags?

Ford: MOSTLY INFURIATINGLY RACIST CARICATURES OF HUMAN MEATBAG CULTURES—er, “human cultures”, I meant just “human cultures”—AND BLANDLY UNIMAGINATIVE OR INSUFFERABLY ANNOYING (LIKE JERKJERK)!

Stan, heaving himself upright: Hey, Sixer?

Bill: Hehehe! George Dufas’s influence again. And the use of the Force? The lasercutlass duels?

Ford: THE FIRST WAS SO UNDERUTILIZED AS TO BE FUCKING POINTLESS, THE OTHER SO OVERDONE AS TO BE SHITTING BORING! THEY MADE SWORDFIGHTING WITH LASERS BECOME BORING! HOW?! WHY?!

Stan: Sixer?

Bill: Hahaha! Still George Dufas! And the script?

Ford: THE SCRIPT?! WHAT SCRIPT?! THAT WAS USED, BARGAIN-PRICED TOILET PAPER! RRRAAARRRGHGHGH!

Stan: Sixer!

Ford: WHAT?! … Er, sorry. What?

Stan: It’s past midnight. Meanin’ it’s bedtime. You comin’ or what?

Ford: Gah! I couldn’t possibly sleep now! I’m too enraged!

Stan, shrugging: Well, I am. So … keep the nerd-ragin’ at, y’know, an “indoor voice” level of volume. ‘kay? [kisses him goodnight, shuffles out]

Ford, momentarily taken aback: Um … Where was I?

Bill, helpfully: The script. Which was also George Dufas’s fault. Basically, the whole prequel trilogy is a case study of what happens if you give a man who had one or two good ideas in the past— when there was an entire team of more talented people to shoot down his one or two thousand bad ideas and sculpt the few good ones— complete creative control of a project.

Ford, remembering how disgusted he is: No, it’s a case study of what happens if a tornado picks up a barn full of diarrhetic animals— A LITERAL SHITSTORM—hits a warehouse of blank paper, then some fuckwattle decides to gather up the pages and use it as a script! It made exactly 0.0 sense as a story! According to SCIENCE! itself there wasn’t even a measurable amount of sense made in this story! And, believe me, I understand that writing isn’t easy, but they had … How long exactly to work on the scripts?

Bill, promptly: Almost exactly16 years to work on the first one, then almost exactly 3 years for the second one, and another 3 for the third.

Ford, trembling with self-control: S-sssixteen years for one script? And that mmmakes … t-t-twenty-two years total to come up with … with that p-pile of hot, fffffuck-juggling shhhhhhhhhhhit … [loses it, explodes] OH MY VARIOUS ENTITIES OF COSMIC POWER FOR WHOM THE TERM “GODS” COULD REASONABLY BE USED AS A SHORTHAND, EVEN IF IT IS SOMEWHAT MISLEADING!

Stan, from the other room: Indoor voice!

Ford, stomping around: WE COULD COME UP WITH A BETTER PLOTLINE FOR A PREQUEL TRILOGY IN ONE NIGHT THAN THAT MOVING BAG OF NEGATIVE FUCKGUZZLE DID IN TWENTY-FUCKING-TWO FUCKING YEARS! AND Y’KNOW WHAT?! [takes Bill by the shoulders] WE WILL, GODSDAMNIT!

Bill, disbelieving: Really? You wanna do something with me?

Ford: AND IT’LL HAVE COMPELLING CHARACTER ARCS, AND SUBTLY DEEP WORLDBUILDING FOR THE GALAXY, AND THE FORCE’LL BE SHOWN—

Stan, from other room: IF YOU DON’T KEEP IT DOWN, STANFORD PINES, I’LL COME OUT THERE AND SHOW YOU MY FORCE RIGHT UPSIDE YOUR FOOL HEAD!

Bill, excited: Mabel left a bunch of … of arts and crafts stuff upstairs. We can use those for this! I’ll just … just run and get them! Hang on! [scampers up the stairs]

Ford, suddenly alone: … wait a minute … [stops short, looks around deserted room) What the freeze-dried hell am I doing?

Stan, grouching back in: What you’re doin’ is bein’ a pain in my ass—a loud pain in my ass!

Ford, almost panicking: No, I’m … about to write better plots for the prequels? With Cipher? I think?

Stan: And? What’s the problem?

Ford: And I don’t … I can’t trust him! That is the problem!

Stan: You can’t trust him to help write what is essentially gonna be a Cosmos Conflicts fanfic? [rolls eyes] C’mon, Sixer, it’s not like he could write anything worse than what we just watched. You were just goin’ on about that.

Ford, faltering: No, I mean, he’s still planning to takeover! No one can trust him, so what am I—

Stan: Just be the scribe yourself; that way, you maintain creative control of the fanfic and he can’t take it over.

Ford: I mean the planet! Er, the galaxy! Gah, no, the dimen—

Stan, deadpan: Oh, yeah, that’s a real dilemma right there. Can’t have Farth Bill takin’ over that nerdlinger galaxy, or we’ll hafta write a whole ‘nother generation of whiney Skyjoggers masterin’ the Force to confront him.

Ford, irritated: Damn it, Stanly, you know what I’m talking about!

Stan, rubbing eyes: Look, I’m gonna share some Old Wisdom™ I learned as a professional conman with you. And which, in fact, you yourself told me rather recently. [lays hands on brother’s shoulders, looks him in the eyes] You don’t hafta trust someone to work with ‘em, ya dumbass. And don’t hafta trust ‘em to be nice to ‘em, neither, ya dumbass. Or even to like ‘em, ya dumbass. You can do all that, while still not trustin’ ‘em … ya dumbass.

Ford, blinking owlishly: … What? I told you that? But—

Stan, slowly: Listen, I didn’t trust Bill at the start of the summer, but I still talked to him. Still interacted with him and was nice … ish and such. And only a week after? I had him workin’ for me. [gestures dismissively] Yeah, he caused some trouble at the start, but I didn’t lock him up ‘cause of it. I was patient with him, I showed him I’d work with him, and I showed the l’il bastard he can’t beat me at my own game— I always got an eye on him, so he can’t get anything major past me. And now? He’s just like any other employee I’ve ever had (except for Soos) … Slacks off and shoplifts about the same amount, too.

Ford: … And you’re bragging about that?

Stan, smugly: Heh. Yep. Think about it, Sixer. For him, that’s huge progress.

Ford, reluctantly: I guess, but—

Stan: Listen, you don’t hafta trust Bill. Okay? You know already he’s up to something (or so you’re convinced, anyway), so he can’t trick you. You’ll be suspicious of absolutely everything, so he won’t be able to get something past you in the middle of, say, writin’ your stupid, nerd fanfic. Or talkin’ ‘bout an anomaly. Or just havin’ a civil conversation every now and then. Okay? This gettin’ through that metal plate in your skull? I mean, it should be able to since—not to put too fine a point on it—you suggested it to me not too long ago.

Ford: I don��t … need … to trust Cipher … to be nice to him …

Stan: Exactly. And—Moses on a moped!—his name is Bill. [turns, goes to leave, pauses in doorway] And for fffffuck’s sake, keep it down while you two do whatever. Some of us are tryin’ to actually sleep.

Ford, standing lost in thought: … can’t believe it … so simple … really have been a silly, old fool not to see it all along …

Bill, returning: Sorry that took so long. I got buried in an avalanche of Mabel’s spare sweaters while digging this stuff out. [unloads an armload onto the table, pulls up paper and pencil] Where do we start, Fordsy?

Ford, a little overwhelmed: Um … honestly, I’m not sure …

Bill: Hmm … Well, what’re the big problems that gotta be fixed? Let’s start with that. What made you mad in the movie?

Ford, after only a split second of thought: Midi-chlorians firstly. Those go, because the Force is a mystical power-energy thing— damn it all!—and not some sorta bacterial infection!

Bill, making a note: Good. Good. How about that Rule of Two? Speaking as a megalomaniac, I can say it’s stupid to only have one agent working for you. You’d get nothing done!

Ford: Um …

Bill: What? Oh, Yog-Sothoth’s sixth soleus, that was a joke.

Ford, deciding to believe that: R-right. Um … None of that immaculate conception or prophecy crap, either. That’s gone. Came out of nowhere, served no purpose, we don’t need it.

Bill, making a note: What, you don’t like the idea of Space Jesus? How about rewriting the romance so that it doesn’t just … happen, y’know? So that there actually is a romance, and not just two straight characters who bone ‘cause they’re the opposite genders?

Ford, getting excited: Moses, yes! And rewriting Otherkin so he isn’t some whiney kid who just … just does stuff because the plot needs some action! We could do that for all of them! We could make it all as great as it deserves to be!

[hours and hours of excited fanboy collaboration transpire …]