#the one w the hands originally had crying Miles but the other sketch made me so happy

[pocket-prosecutor]

it's not always that bad maybe. sometimes it's fun, even

[emilyofjane]

The Host’s Origins

The continuity of the Author/Host storyline has always bothered me. I know it’s already been written a million times before, but I wanted to write something that bridged the two together, and do my own little take on how the Author became the Host. And since Mark said he won’t be making any future videos about the Host, what do I have to lose? ˉ\_(ツ)_/ˉ Enjoy!

—

The Author. The Narrator. The Host. For years people have tried to label me, to try and put a name to this mysterious power I possess. They see my abilities as a spectacle, too busy "ooh"ing and "aah"ing over the lights and effects to admire the performance underneath. They fail to see that there is more to my character than simply the stories I write – that I was once an ordinary man with a real name, long before my days as a writer began. He is a man of which I have long forgotten in the past, and yet it feels like only yesterday since I knew him. This is his – our – story.

My life began not unlike that of any other. I was born in a hospital to a pair of loving parents, and it was from them that I received my birth name: Bertram. There was no special meaning behind it, no secret message or omen hidden between the lines, so not even it could foretell the future I was destined to have. To everyone around me, I was just a normal person, and therefore I saw myself in this way, as well. It would be a long time before I'd realize that this was far from the case.

I'm not sure when I first realized that my abilities were unique. I had to have been at least 5 years old. Even at this early stage of life, before I even picked up my first pencil, I could see that I wasn't quite like the other children. While the other kids ran and played, I would sit and observe quietly, taking in every last detail of my surroundings. I would see every push and shove, every scraped knee and broken elbow, every laugh and scream and shout. My elders always scolded me for this, constantly telling me to stop mumbling to myself and join the rest of the children, but I always persisted. This little game I made – of narrating everything around me – would soon turn into a tedious habit that would nag me for years to come.

My first supernatural event, however, didn't come until much later, around age 10. I remember that I was sitting at my desk when it happened, pen in hand. I was upset with my parents; I had asked if we could adopt a pet, but they had rejected the idea. So I pulled out a piece of paper and created my own "pet" – a beautiful white dove named Bianca. I drew a crude sketch of the bird and below it I described everything I could about her, from the sound of her cooing and her favorite treat all the way down to how she ruffled her feathers when she preened. I was halfway through my writings when, suddenly, I heard a soft cooing noise underneath the desk. I pulled out my chair and looked down in my lap, only to see the exact same dove I had been writing about. She gave me an inquisitive look, as did I, and quickly I realized that there was something special about the things that I write. Just as Bianca came to life in my mind, she came to life outside of it, as well.

I discovered that everything I write...happens.

Honestly, I didn't know what to make of this power, at first. With this ability, I could create something out of nothing, transport myself anywhere in this world and beyond, and change the world around me in ways I never thought possible. Needless to say, that was a lot of responsibility for a child to bear. I was terrified, yes...but, at the same time, I was absolutely enthralled. Who knew what kind of amazing stories and heart-pounding adventures could stem from such power?

So, for the longest time, I kept these powers to myself. During the day, I'd put up a foolproof facade, masking myself as a normal student at school and a typical teenager at home. But as soon as the sun set over the horizon and the rest of the world drifted to sleep, I would stay wide awake, and, with Bianca peering over my shoulder, I would write. This is how the rest of my childhood was spent, pouring over my works of fiction and testing the limits of my newfound power. I look back fondly on these moments, as they are some of the happiest moments of my life. Writing had truly become my lifeblood, my passion.

But then, the visions started.

They started out small, at first. Whenever I laid eyes on someone, I could see their actions just a few seconds before they actually occurred. I would see a man tripping over a wire, and five seconds later, he did. I would see a car skid out of control on a snowy day, a dog leaping up to greet its owner, a young baby start to cry, all just moments before they happened in real life. It was strange, seeing and narrating the future but not being able to do anything about it. I mostly just ignored it, keeping the discovery to myself, as I did with most of my powers.

As the years went on, however, the visions became harder and harder to conceal. I began to see minutes ahead into the future, then hours, slowly but surely trickling into days and even weeks ahead of time. People, places, and events began to blur together in my mind, a thousand predictions happening at once. My narrations grew longer and longer by the day, and everyone around me thought I was insane. It was overwhelming, to say the least.

I began to isolate myself in my studies, spending less and less time in the real world and living vicariously through my fiction. I avoided people as much as I could, for all it took was one glance into another's eyes to have their entire life's story flash before my eyes and tumble off my lips. When I did go out in public, I was almost paralyzed by the constant barrage of visions, my mind aching from the sheer influx of information. I eventually left the city entirely and built my own secluded area in the woods; at least there, those visions couldn't haunt me. I still poured my heart and soul into my stories, but now they were more to me than just a creative outlet or a form of release; they were my lifeline, my link to humanity, the only thing that could preserve my sanity in this lonely life I pursued. Writing was the only thing that could put my mind at rest.

It wouldn't be long, however, until not even my writing could keep the visions at bay. I began to see them regardless of whether or not I looked a person in the eyes. Anyone who even came close to the forest would have their lives flash before my eyes, paralyzing me from what would sometimes be miles away. Some days, they would fog my mind so intensely that I couldn't even think of a topic to write. Bianca was the only one who could soothe me during these times, but she had grown old and frail with age. Once she was gone, I had no one left to talk to, no one to distract me from this reality. I was completely and utterly alone.

Finally, one day, I reached the breaking point. From the very second I woke up, those dreaded visions blasted my brain. I couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't blink away the madness. I could only lie for what felt like hours in my bed, trying and failing to block out the visions. Eventually, I gathered enough strength to move one finger, then two, until finally my whole hand shakily grasped the nightstand beside me. I struggled to stand, the visions blurring the world around me, numbing my mind, weighing down my body like lead. I fought for every inch, slowly and agonizingly making my way to the other end of the room. There was a floor-length mirror beside the bedroom door, and I collapsed in front of it, my whole body writhing in pain. It would be at least 10 minutes before I pulled myself up to my feet and glanced at myself in the mirror.

My eyes were bloodshot, every last vein visible from the strain. My breathing was heavy, my heart pounding. The world blurred once more, and suddenly I saw myself amongst the visions, my life literally flashing before my eyes. I saw myself from all perspectives, every last possible outcome of every decision I would ever make in my life. Some decisions would lead to happiness, others to sorrow, but most of them just foreshadowed a painful, unending loneliness. I saw myself in shambles, driven to insanity, wishing for death to release me. My whole body was shaking, at this point; is this really what my life would come to?

I began to see other people in the visions; these people sort of looked like myself, but at the same time, they did not. I saw a southerner, a monochromatic face, a game show host, a man with a pink mustache. Their faces were all identical to mine. Who were these doppelgängers – versions of myself from different timelines? Or was I simply going insane? At that point, I was banking on the latter.

Then I saw the face of a doctor, looking down sadly at me from a hospital gurney. He reached for something outside my plane of vision, and I could only assume that this was me just moments before my death...

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I gouged my eyes out, right then and there. Blood poured down my face like hot tears, but I didn't care. Slowly the visions began to fade, in sync with my eyesight. My body had grown physically weak from the onslaught, and I fell to my knees. I heard the shattering of glass, and the broken shards stabbed into my arms and legs – I must have hit the mirror on the way down. Even without the visions, my head still writhed in pain. The last thing I remembered before passing out was the sound of my front door opening, and one last word slipped past my lips: "Help."

I awoke to the sound of hospital equipment beeping and buzzing all around me. I tried to open my eyes, but the black void remained. So my suspicions were true: I really did render myself blind. Slowly I reached my hand to where my eyes used to be and felt a soft, linen cloth wrapped around my face. Somehow, I still had a sense of where everything was, despite having no vision whatsoever – must have been my mysterious powers at work.

I moved my head upwards, as if to look up at something, and suddenly I felt the presence of another person – the doctor. I sat myself up in my cot and turned my head towards the stranger, and I could sense that he was smiling.

"You gave us quite the scare," I remember him saying. "But don't worry. You'll be all right."

I asked for this good samaritan's name, and he told me to call him Dr. Iplier, or simply "Doc." I could still feel wisps of visions dance across the blackness of my vision, but it wasn't nearly as intense as before. I gathered just enough information to see that this stranger, this godsend, was the same doctor I had seen in the mirror. I could sense that we were similar, both struggling with a power we could not control, and that comforted me. I realized that for the first time, possibly in my entire life, I was not alone.

Eventually I took up residence with Dr. Iplier and the rest of my doppelgängers, the same people who I had seen in my reflection, the faces who looked almost identical to myself but at the same time differed so greatly. For the first time in years, I could interact with these people without being bombarded with countless visions. I have grown to love and appreciate everyone here, and in return they have accepted me for who I am. Some days I regret losing my eyesight, but all that I have gained in exchange for my vision reminds me that it was worth it.

I realize that I may never again be the man I once was, but I have found peace in this fact. I shed my birth name for this reason; Bertram is a name of a tortured and lonesome man, an artist who relied on his artwork to survive. Now, however, I am mended – not quite complete, but I am not broken, either. Now, I find joy in my writing once again, a feeling I had not felt in a long time. Now, I am happier, more at peace with myself and others, and in certain ways I am almost whole again.

Now, I am The Author. The Narrator. The Host. And I wouldn't want it any other way.