#this is in reference to uhhhh | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shoezuki · 6 months

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Sampo likes to be vague about where they're going. It's kind of like a game to him, one that only he knows the rules to. Gepard asks, even though he knows it's nearly hopeless; where are we going? Is it a planet, a ship, a living creature? Which galaxy are we in? Is there oceans, deserts, forests? What kind of animals are there, what kind of people will they see?

Even when his questions go unanswered, Sampo's eyes gleam. Sometimes he shuts Gepard up with a kiss, a hand pressed over his heart, or teeth brushing over the column of his neck in a way that makes his breath stutter.

This time, though, Sampo is direct. For once, Gepard doesn't have to ask. Sampo wakes him up with instructions.

"Don't leave the ship," he instructs for the hundredth time as he guides the ship towards a strange, lone rock in the cosmos. The section of space they find themselves in is strange, a sweet, heavy feeling in the air. Their destination is in the midst of an asteroid field, metallic debris and chunks of meteors strewn and suspended about like someone strung them up randomly.

It's a bar, that much is evident. A sort of small, concrete building on a rough landform. It looks industrial, like someone had sliced a building out of a strip mall and deposited it here. There landform it's placed on is a small island, overrun with weathered docks made of scrap metal and decaying wood, anchored to nothing. various ships, dozens of them of all shapes and sizes, cling to the docks or are anchored to the landform itself, with ropes or chains or strange contraptions. For a desolate corner of the universe, it's packed. Yet Gepard doesn't see a single living person in sight.

"Gepard."

Sampo says his name with an uncharacteristic urgency that makes him jump, only then realizing Sampo had docked their ship as well and left them sitting in silence for however long. Sampo stands in front of Gepard now, hands on his hips and a rigid, towering figure. The starlight seeping in and the bright, flashing fluorescent lights on the bar glow from behind him, casting a shadow over his face. "Did you hear me?"

"Don't leave the ship," Gepard parrots, only half awake, with his legs crossed and a blanket draped over him. Sampo's jaw tightens. "Yes, but what else?" Gepard's sheepish silence is met with a low sigh, Sampo pinching the bridge of his nose. "Geppie, I'm being serious here, okay? This is important."

Gepard doesn't understand, but Sampo's tight posture, the pinched slant of his eyebrows, the way his stare feels intent, pointed on Gepard's skin, all makes secondhand unease curdle in his stomach. He bites his tongue and nods his head. Somehow that motion is enough to make Sampo sigh with clear relief, all but collapsing onto the rickety futon beside Gepard.

"Okay, take notes, Gepard. No-- not literally," Sampo adds on when Gepard pulls out his phone, making him blink and put it back down, attention fully on Sampo. "So, you will not leave the ship, under any circumstances. Got it? Never. You could watch the tavern collapse into itself and you still have to stay here. Don't leave and absolutely do not follow me into the tavern.

"But..." Sampo hisses between his teeth, as if pained to say more, "if for some idiotic, stupid reason that only the Aeons know of, you do go inside, there's rules you need to follow." He holds up one finger, intently watching him as if to make sure Gepard was actually paying attention. "First, don't tell anyone your name. Call yourself... the Captain, or something. No one can know your real name. Second, don't eat or drink anything. People will act all kind and hospitable or whatever and try and offer you drinks. Don't take any. Thirdly, do not dance with a single person. Don't dance at all, really. Just stay put somewhere and I'll... I'll find you, alright? Not that I’ll need to, since you won’t go in the Tavern, right? Okay? You got all that?"

Gepard frowns, chewing on his lip. This is the wrong answer, apparently; Sampo makes him jump by grabbing his shoulders, fingers tight where they dig into his arms. "Gepard, please. I'm being serious here. Do you understand?"

"Yes, of course," Gepard nods rapidly, repeating Sampo's rules in his head like a mantra. It's not the truth, though. Confusion prickles under his skin. "Why... are we even here? Wait, why are you going inside? Won't it be... dangerous for you too, then?"

Sampo's smile is sharp, a dangerous flash of pointed teeth. "I am technically a Masked Fool, y'know? And if we're gonna go through this neighbourhood of the universe, I need to, uh... partake in some revelry with the ladies and gentlemen in the Tavern. It'd be rude to walk through their house and not at least say hi!"

It's not the truth, or at least not the whole of it, but before Gepard can press anymore Sampo rubs his hand over his mouth, his words muffled into his palm. "And I gotta pay the owner of the tavern a visit, make sure he's upholding an old deal of ours."

Distaste, a sort of rancid discomfort makes Gepard stay quiet, simply watching Sampo as he gets up waltzes around the small bedroom on the ship. He hums something, talking to himself in cut off sentences like he often does as he gets his jacket, puts on his shoes. He feels different, though, a different kind of undercurrent below his skin. Sampo double and triple checks that his daggers are sheathed and hidden on him before turning to leave.

"Oooooookay! I'll be back!" He sings out, vanishing through the bedroom door and into the cockpit. He's leaning back into the door in less than a second, something in his eyes that makes Gepard sit straight. "Don't. Leave."

Sampo doesn't turn away until Gepard nods again, wiping around and vanishing like he'd never been there. Gepard hears the sound of the shuttle door opening with an airy hissss, slamming back shut.

He doesn't know how long he sits there, stewing in the silence Sampo left behind. The ship is quiet without Sampo's presence. His absence is always a sort of empty stillness, but now it feels suffocating. Gepard starts pacing, at some point.

Neon signs hang on the industrial cement walls of the bar, flashing images of two beer bottles colliding in cheers, an open sign that pulses blue and white. A massive, pink neon glowed the name 'The Green Chapel,' gaudy and far too bright. It makes his eyes hurt, but they still glow on the back of his eyelids when he tries to block them out.

Gepard doesn't see a single person, constantly walking around and up to the windshield, looking out at the other ships. Not a thing has moved, not another living soul has announced their presence. Gepard feels horrifically alone.

It's completely quiet. He can't hear any music, but there's a constant thump thump thump rattling in his bones, his heart, sending goosebumps rising on his skin. It reminds him of Serval's concerts, the times when he went to see Mechanical Fever perform; that sort of all consuming, booming sound of drums and bass that rattles the air.

He isn't sure how much time passes, but he knows it's far, far too long. It takes hours of worrying, of anxiety and unease making him feel nauseous, before Gepard realizes Sampo never said the tavern was safe for him, either.

It's deceptively easy, to leave the ship. Gepard makes sure he has his gauntlet on, properly dressed in jeans and a dark jacket. The air feels cold as he steps down onto the metal dock the ship is precariously perched on. Gepard doesn't hear a thing until he's standing at the old, weathered door, the fluorescent signs humming electric above him.

Gepard walks into the bar and is instantly engulfed by it, sound exploding around him. The music is electric, rhythmic harsh beats that crackle and surround him. It's massive inside, beyond what should be possible. The lights above pulse, the lights like living beings cutting through the darkness and bathing the crowd of writhing bodies in pink, purple, blues and reds. It's warm, a type of wet humidity in the air that smells of sweat and liquor and something strangely sharp-sweet that makes Gepard wrinkle his nose. He barely gets a chance to even recoil after stepping inside when a hand catches him, fingers on his elbow making him jolt away.

"Oh?" A woman, short in stature with long dark hair that glows blue-purple-pink under the throbbing lights. Her face is obscured by a mask, a pointed face with triangular ears. Gepard can almost make out swirling designs, the dark and light colours indistinguishable under the pulsing lights. He can't see her eyes, but there's a sharp tilt of her head that makes him feel small.

"You're new, aren't you?" She giggles, voice somehow cutting through the pounding music. "You are. I'd have recognized that handsome face if I'd seen it before." Gepard stands far taller than her, but somehow Gepard reels cornered, as if she's towering over him. She leans heavily into his side, a hand brushing over his clothed ribs. "Want to grab a drink? My treat, if you pay me back with a dance."

Gepard shoves her away without much thought. "No, I'd rather not," Gepard grinds out. She doesn't even flinch at his rejection, just stepping back. "I'm just looking for someone--"

"Aw, c'mon! No need to be such a bore. Just one dance won't kill you! Why not have some fun while you're here?"

Gepard bristles, overwhelmed and worried with Sampo's warnings swirling through his head. He narrows his eyes, goes to say something or push past her, but for a split second her mask shifts, the corners of its black eyes crinkling like paper. "Wait," she says, her voice burst of noise, "who are you looking for?"

Gepard catches himself before he can respond, clenching his teeth. Sampo had stressed he not say his own name, but what about Sampo's? He doesn't want to take the risk. "That... is none of your concern. Now, if you'll excuse me." He's uncaring as he shoves past her, gritting his teeth at the overwhelming lights and music, trying to stay out of the dancing crowd and keep towards the wall. He freezes when he feels too many fingers on his back.

“You're with him, aren’t you?” He doesn't know how he recognizes It to be her, her voice now distorted and muffled like she's underwater. Gepard spins on his heels and raises his fists on instinct, heart thumping in his chest--but she's gone. Gepard digs his teeth into his cheek and turns back, squaring his shoulders.

The dancefloor in the middle of the tavern is teeming with people, moving like one unified mass of laughter and cheering and screaming people. Gepard keeps to the wall, walking beside tables and booths filled with people all talking and taking shots, singing and laughing under the music. Many of them wear masks, indiscriminate things of varying sizes and shapes that Gepard can't decipher. Many of them don't wear masks, too, a cheerful gleam over their eyes. Gepard keeps catching glimpses of the bar through the crowd, against the far wall that's lined with shelves choke full of bottles. There's one bartender, technically; the person behind the bar is a humanoid figure in a clean blazer, their head gone with numerous grinning and crying and laughing masks spinning around over their shoulders. Their arms seem incorporeal, not quite real in a way that Gepard swears he sees two arms stretched across the bar collecting change, two more mixing a drink, one more talking with a customer like it's a hand puppet. It hurts his head to watch them move.

He has no idea how he's going to find Sampo in this. He should've asked more questions, especially what he's doing here. He tries to look for blue hair, green eyes, that smile he's come to know so well, but the hazy lights and constant movement makes everything blur together.

Gepard isn't looking where he's going, scanning the crowd and the filled tables and booths. His foot catches on the leg of someone's chair, nearly tripping him if it weren't for the hand that catches him by the shoulder. “Sorry,” Gepard gasps out, standing up. The man in the seat laughs, clapping a hand on his shoulder. His mask is more like a helmet, metal shaped into the face and crown of a king.

“No problem, my man!” He laughs loudly, throwing an arm over Gepard's shoulders in a sort of side hug, as if they're old friends. “No harm no foul! What's your name, friend? Come to watch the show?”

“Call me Captain.” Gepard blurts out, looking past him. There's numerous tables and chairs before him, all facing the wall that is covered in dozens of TV screens of varying sizes. They all seem to be showing the same thing; a first person perspective of someone seemingly in battle, fighting a gargantuan reptilian beast. They seem to be losing, someone out of the corner of their eye screaming for them. Many people are watching the screens, cheering and clapping despite the grizzly scene of claws raking across the person's chest. Gepard sees some people groan, others celebrating as credits change hands.

“It's just getting good,” the man pulls at Gepard's attention, motioning for him to sit down. Gepard holds against his tugging. “According to the script, the performer's love interest will watch them perish and go on a rampage to avenge them! Want me to order you a drink, too?”

Gepard's shaking his head before the man's done talking, watching the way the mask's eyes gleam and blink like melting metal. “No,” he says, glad that the man's grip melts off him like ice as he steps back, “no thank you, I'm--”

He's stepped too far back, colliding with someone dancing. Gepard jumps and spins to see someone with the face of a snake and hair like pine needles hiss at him. His heart leaps in his throat as they vanish into the crowd, looking around to find himself engulfed by the dancers, surrounded. The music is too much, warm bodies pressing around him. He can feel his shirt sticking to his back, his heading hurting from the lights and--

A hand, rough and tight and insistent, clamps down on his forearm. Gepard growls and spins around, raising his gauntlet and punching whoever has grabbed him. His attack is halted midair, their hand encasing his fist. Gepard tries to kick, shove and pull away only to be yanked forward towards them.

Off balance, he falls into their grip, arms around his shoulders and his head shoved down into the crook of their neck. He goes to lash out, heart running rampant in his chest. He only stills, though, when he catches a glimpse of blue hair, feels annoying but familiar buckles digging into his own chest. The mouth by his ear, the chin hooked over his shoulder, makes him relax.

“Gepard!” Sampo's voice is a hissed sound, low and only for him. “What are you doing here?” His tone is harsh, his body tense against Gepard's. Sampo's hands are flurry of panicked motion as he runs them over Gepard's back, his arms, his shoulders, his head. “Are you okay? You aren’t hurt? Has anyone tried to-- Why are you here? Seriously, I wasn't joking when I said you needed to stay put! This place isn't safe. This stupid, sorry excuse for a Tavern--”

“I'm sorry,” Gepard interjects, grabbing one of Sampo's hands in his own, the other light on Sampo's waist. He rubs his thumb over the back of Sampo's hand. “I know, I know what you said. But you were gone… a long time. I was concerned and decided to look for you.”

Sampo is quiet, simply standing pressed against Gepard. He feels the tension slowly leave his body, feels his shoulders drop as he lets out a sigh. He says nothing for a moment, intertwining his fingers with Gepard’s, his other hand on his shoulder as he starts to guide Gepard into a slow, swaying motion. He just goes along with it, let’s Sampo lead him into a slow dance that is wildly out of place with the music, the ecstatic crowd around them. Sampo is humming something soft and distantly familiar, his cheek pressed to Gepard’s.

The music is still constant, loud and vibrant, but Sampo’s presence makes it feel… diluted. Faraway and almost muffled, like there’s a bubble between them and the rest of the bar. Gepard glances around and notices it’s the same with the crowd, too; dozens of people around them, lost in their own worlds, now give them a wide berth, a few feet kept between the two of them and everyone else at all times. No one turns to look at them, Gepard doesn’t feel any eyes on him or note any quick glances towards them, as if looking at Sampo will burn their eyes.

“No need to apologize,” Sampo speaks up suddenly. Gepard turns to look at his face, but Sampo holds him chest to chest, keeping his chin over Gepard’s collar. His blue hair is vibrant in the light, his skin almost sparkling. “I shoulda just… brought you with me from the start, probably. Well I’d rather not bring you here at all but…” He sighs, clicks his tongue, leans into Gepard. “Duty calls! Or something like that.”

“Are you done here?” Gepard whispers. Sampo shouldn’t be able to hear him over the surging, vibrant air, but somehow Gepard knows he does. “With whatever it is you need to do here, I mean.” Sampo’s immediate response is a groaning sound deep in his throat, his forehead knocking against Gepard’s collarbone. “No, no. I still… ugh, this place sucks. Just give me a minute, please? And I’ll…”

“Okay.” Sampo leans into him so heavily and fully, like he’s trying to meld himself with Gepard’s flesh, into his skin. Gepard takes his weight without question, content to hold them both up as Sampo sways them in a slow turning waltz. Gepard’s head doesn’t hurt, anymore. The overstimulation has subsided, but the confusion and concern hasn’t, not fully.

“We’re dancing.”

“Mhm. Well, technically. Sampo Koski a better dancer than whatever this is, I assure you!”

“That’s not what I mean,” Gepard says with an amused snort, knocking his temple against Sampo’s head lightly. “I mean that… you said no dancing. With anyone.”

Sampo’s laugh rumbles Gepard’s chest, through his ribs and straight into his heart. “C’mon, Geppie! If you just don’t wanna dance, say so! I promise I’ll pretend it won’t break my weak, frail heart.”

“And you said no names. But you’ve said mine in here many times now.”

There’s a hesitation, one Gepard feels in Sampo’s stuttering step, his hand clenching so slightly around Gepard’s. “It’s… I’m just that exceptional, I suppose,” he says after a strained pause.

Gepard wants to ask. It is a need, a rising feeling that rises from his stomach to his throat. He wants to ask about the people, the masks, the way Sampo’s touch and his presence makes people keep their distance but makes his head feel clear. Gepard has never, really, been curious like his sisters, but Sampo makes curiosity envelop him; Gepard wants to know everything about Sampo, the good and the bad. The things Sampo won’t tell him. But not here, in this strange Tavern with these strange people.

“I’m sorry,” Sampo whispers out, and Gepard feels like he’s apologizing for more than it seems, “but I need to… connect with some old Fools.” Sampo lifts his head and cranes his neck back, scanning over and past the crowd. Gepard tries to get a look at his face but Sampo turns his head each time, the lights and shadows obstructing his expression. All Gepard gets is shimmering, smooth skin like porcelain and a glimpse of green eyes glowing in an indescribable colour.

“I can leave back to the ship,” Gepard says, “just… promise you won’t be long.”

“Sorry, darling, but, uh…” He clicks his tongue, jerks his chin towards where Gepard came, where the door should be. But Gepard sees nothing but chairs and tables, a tall, harsh wall decorated with paintings and photos and screens that make his mind spin. “You’ll have to wait to leave with me, so I can show you the way out. But I’d rather you don’t meet the Tavernkeeper…” He chews on his lip, humming in thought as he searches for… something.

“Aha!” Sampo suddenly jerks, jumping and yanking Gepard along with him. “Found him! C’mon, Geppie! You can hang out with my old friend while I, uh, go say my hellos.”

The crowd parts seamlessly like water, heads turned away from them as Sampo pulls Gepard along. Gepard keeps his head down, focusing onto the point of contact where Sampo holds his hand tightly, his grip protective and unwavering. He doesn’t look back at Gepard once.

A series of pool tables and poker tables envelop the corner, on a raised floor almost like a stage. Gepard glimpses poker chips, cards and credits and roulette wheels all in motion as Sampo guides him through it all to the far corner. A booth catches Gepard’s attention as they approach it, the seats filled with lifesized, off-white porcelain dolls, carved into various mechanical poses. Each has cards and chips in front of them, as if someone had set up a poker scene. The one, moving person sitting at the table makes his eyebrows raise.

“Gio--” Gepard says, clamping his mouth shut before saying his full name. The man’s head snaps up, the familiar mask meeting Gepard’s gaze. The black, indestructible eyes of his mask are dark and depthless. He holds himself upright and proper, gloved fingers clasping his own hand of cards. He tilts his head towards Sampo as they stop right in front of his booth.

“Ayo, Gio! Long time no see!” Sampo laughs, his tone sarcastic and light. He wraps an arm around Gepard’s shoulders, as if unwilling to let go of him in any way. “I didn’t take you for the kind to haunt around this Tavern, but I knew I felt you here! What have you been up to, you old Fool?”

“Brother Sampo, delightful to see you, as always.” His voice is a low, lulling tone, despite how he has to raise his voice to be heard over the constant din of music. He glances down at his cards, tapping the table before looking up again. “I’m simply passing through and staying here a moment before moving on. It’s, frankly, much more strange seeing you here. Business as usual?”

“Business as usual,” Sampo hums and nods, tilting his head in a harsh, jerking motion. “Sorry to, uh, interrupt your game, but I have a favour to ask you.”

“A favour?” There’s a pointed, sharp interest in his tone. Gepard stares at the smooth, two-toned design of his mask, suddenly jumping when he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. He looks to the mannequins, staring at them and challenging them to move again. “I don’t mind dealing in favours, especially with you, Sampo. I assume it has to do with…”

Gepard looks back at him, noticing the weight of Giovanni’s attention now on him. Sampo’s grip is tight, fingers digging into his shoulder. “Captain,” Gepard blurts out, “you can call me the Captain.” Sampo’s grip relaxes. The lips of Giovanni’s mask almost seem to lift. “Ah, the Captain, yes. It’s a pleasant surprise to see you here, Captain. Have you been well?”

“I’m doing well, G-Giovanni. It’s good to see you, too.”

“We’re on our honeymoon,” Sampo coos, making Gepard’s face heat up. Sampo gives him the opportunity to protest, but Gepard bites his tongue instead and lets Sampo squirm. “Uh-uhm, yeah! I’m showing him all the sights! The best places in the universe! Not this Tavern, though. This is an unfortunate pit stop I couldn’t avoid. You get it, Gio.” Giovanni just nods in response, lifting his hand and pointing to a mannequin across the table from him. He says a word that is static in Gepard’s ears, and the mannequin has vanished, a seat open.

“Gep,” Sampo whispers in his ear, pulling his attention. Gepard tries to look at his face--Sampo ducks away, just enough to cast shadows over his face. “You don’t mind keeping Giovanni some company here for a minute, do you? I’ll be back before you know it! Oh, don’t play poker with him, though.”

Gepard can’t help but tense, looking to Giovanni with narrowed eyes. “Why?”

“Because he’s a dirty cheater.”

“You shouldn’t project your own failings on me, Sampo Koski,” he says as he shuffles. The chips and the cards have shifted when Gepard wasn’t looking, Giovanni’s winnings now significantly lighter. “Would you like me to deal you in, Captain?”

“I’m okay, thank you.” He peels himself away from Sampo, sliding into the booth across from Giovanni. The music is instantly louder, now away from Sampo. “I won’t be staying long, after all.” Gepard says it with a pointed look in Sampo’s direction, making him snort. Sampo is looking away, only the portrait of his face visible. The little of his smile Gepard can glimpse looks stiff, plastic. “Thanks, Gio! I’ll be back before you know it, Captain.”

He turns on his heels but hesitates. Gepard frowns, goes to ask if he’s okay, only for Sampo to move and surge towards him. He’s quick, the lights making him a blurred movement. Gepard feels Sampo’s lips on his cheek, strangely cold and smooth against his skin. It makes his chest swell regardless.

“See ya!” Sampo spins around and marches off, the dancing crowd parting for him. Gepard watches him all the way, seeking him out when he loses sight of Sampo. He can see the bar in the back from here, the inhuman bartender behind it. Gepard sees a familiar head pause by the barstools, the bartender going rigid like a statue. They move, turn towards Sampo, leaving all their customers who were begging for their attention abandoned without a care. The masks spin, shivering, settling on a massive mask with its expression twisted in something resembling fear. Sampo gestures, shrugs, makes wide, clipped motions with his hands as he says something that makes the bartender recoil. Sampo opens a door Gepard swears wasn’t there before, making the bartender go inside before following them in.

“How has Belobog been?”

Gepard turns back to Giovanni. The lights are overwhelming once more, the music piercing through his flesh, to his very core. It’s hard to focus on the other man, who’s looking down at his poker hand intently. “It’s… yes, Belobog is doing well. Nothing out of the ordinary since you’ve left.” It’s a lie, one Gepard doesn’t feel bad about. If Sampo hadn’t mentioned what had happened to his friend, Gepard definitely wouldn’t be the one to bear both their chests open. “You’ve… been well? You said you aren’t here for long. You’re traveling, I assume?”

“I’m not one to stay idle for long,” he hums, putting chips into the center of the table. The mannequins keep moving out of the corner of Gepard’s eyes, making him jump and stare at their still figures. They’re only animated, fully formed people when he isn’t looking at them, seeing people holding their cards and matching Giovanni’s bet, only to go still once more. Their faces are painted on with what looks like makeup, lipstick spread over their doll-like lips messily.

“I am, frankly, surprised to see you away from your city, Captain.” Gepard looks back to him, watching as he collects his winnings from the mannequins. The sound of his chips clattering together sounds like bells. “Not to say I’m not glad. There is a lot of joy to be found in leaving home, seeing new things. I’m sure Sampo has treated you to some entertaining sights.”

“Honestly,” Gepard sighs, sinking into his chair just a bit, “I never thought I’d leave, either. I could never leave permanently, or travel forever like you do. But it’s been… phenomenal.”

“I’m happy for you.” Giovanni’s tone is the same, level and collected, but Gepard can tell he’s genuine. “Sampo Koski is well versed in… elation, after all. I wouldn’t have expected you to have found each other like this, moreso I’m shocked that that old Fool can settle, but I truly wish the best for both of you.”

He doesn’t really know what to do with this turn of conversation, covering his warm, blushing face with a hand. He laughs into his palm, watching talking mannequins just barely out of his focus. “Ah… thank you? It’s… we… yeah. Yeah.” He pauses a moment, the entirety of Giovanni’s words registering and making him frown. “What do you mean by that?”

Giovanni hesitates while shuffling, the cards in his hands slipping to the table. He huffs, dragging them back together in a clean stack. His movements are smooth, practiced as he shuffles, with unnecessary flourishes as he fans the cards, cascading them between his hands. It reminds Gepard of Sampo, the times they spent playing poker between the two of them, later with Seele once Gepard actually got the hang of it. Sampo is far, far more flashy with it, though.

“You have questions.”

Gepard does. Many of them, listless and disorganized in the confines of his skull. None of them are meant for Giovanni, though. “Are these actually people, or mannequins?”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Giovanni says with a chuckle, dealing out cards. They glide across the table, settling perfectly in front of the mannequins. “Frankly, it is… unimaginable to me that Sampo would bring anyone here, let alone you.”

Gepard crosses his arms, sitting straight. “Why is that?”

“This place is… well, you see how it is.” Gepard doesn’t look away from Giovanni as he gestures out and around them. “Sampo has some… previous agreements that make him come here, but I know he would never set foot in this place if he could avoid it. But him bringing you to any Tavern? He has pulled risks in the past, but I thought he’d be more… careful.”

“I came in here of my own accord,” Gepard bites back, not hiding his defensiveness. “It’s my fault I’m even here. Sampo told me to stay away, but I came in myself.”

“Because you wanted in on the fun?” Giovanni says, “or because Sampo wouldn’t tell you why he’s here?”

“I came in here to make sure he was okay.”

“You truly don’t need to worry about him in any Tavern,” he laughs, clicks his tongue, shakes his head like he’s talking to a child. “I think you know that, too. Sampo isn’t in danger here.”

“You’ve called him old,” Gepard blurts out, digging his fingers into his thighs. It bothers him, for some reason, this strange and unimportant thing. Giovanni seems to expect this, maybe knew he’d planted that niggling worry into his head, tapping his fingers on the table. “Yes, I did.”

“Why.”

“I’m sure Sampo has been careful with you, considering you will return to your planet.” The tap tap tap tap of his fingers on the tabletop send a hammer swinging against his skull. “But Sampo and I are old, especially for Masked Fools. We tend to get too involved in our performances, especially tragedies. Fools don't live as long as us. We have been around this universe… many times. And time isn’t kind in every galaxy.”

“You’re not answering, Giovanni.” He grinds his teeth. He has the rising feeling that Giovanni is taking delight in this, and it makes his hackles raise. “Tell me. What do you mean.”

“How old do you think he is?”

“Gio--”

“You’re probably right,” he interjects, pulling more chips to himself. One of the out of view mannequins shuffles the cards, and it grates on Gepard’s skin. “In your assumption, I mean. He isn’t technically much older than you, but he’s been around longer.

“An example,” he hums, taps his chin, holding Gepard’s gaze. “I have an old business partner in the Klimt Republic. About five years ago, I left and journeyed across the galaxies to meet with merchants, business associates, sponsor the Interastral Tournament Festival, etcetera.” He leans forward, over his own cards and chips and towards Gepard. “I visited him, about a week ago. For him, 30 years had passed. He’d retired and his daughter was managing his business.”

Gepard doesn’t say a word, just watches the tight, careful way Giovanni raises his cards and throws them down on the table. Two aces stare up at them, vibrating on the table like they are going to take flight. Gepard hadn’t noticed the chips all collecting into the middle of the table, Giovanni chuckling lowly as he drags them towards himself.

“I don’t mean to alarm you,” he says without raising his head; Gepard doesn’t entirely believe him. “As I said, Sampo is careful when he wants to be. And knowledgeable, too. He knows the universe better than most do. If you haven’t noted any temporal discrepancies when messaging people, then there’s no harm, no foul.”

“Your name isn’t Giovanni.” Gepard’s words bubble over, not-quite questions that press between his teeth. His head hurts, his brain feeling too large in his skull. Giovanni shakes his head. “No, it is not.”

“Sampo Koski… isn’t his name, is it?”

Giovanni laughs, a full body cackle that sounds shrill and strange from the other man. Gepard grits his teeth, narrowing his eyes at the pulsing lights that taunt him from above. “Believe it or not, Captain,” Giovanni sighs, rubbing nonexistent tears from the eyes of his mask. He pauses to collect the credits the mannequins had bet, folding it neatly. “But it is. Out of every name he’s taken, it’s the truest.”

The cards have vanished, the chips gone, the mannequins nowhere to be found. It’s as if it had never existed, that Giovanni had been alone. Gepard stares down at the bare, worn table before looking back to Giovanni as he stands up, straightens his suit. “Sampo Koski is an exception.”

He almost wants to ask what in the Aeons he means by that, but Giovanni is making a shocked noise in the back of his throat before he can. He looks down and raises his arm, peeling back his sleeve and looking at his bare wrist. “Ah! Apologies, Captain, but I’m afraid the time has slipped from me. I best be going. Please give Sampo my farewells, and tell him I’m sorry.”

His eyebrows raise, going to stand himself. “Sorry? For wh--”

Giovanni doesn’t say a word, spinning on his heels and straight into the wall. Gepard’s mouth hangs open on his unfinished words when he watches the wall seem to crumble in on itself, revealing a door out into a bright, golden cityscape. It unfurls behind Giovanni and returns to normal in an instant. Gepard bursts to his feet then, hands flat on the table as he gapes at where the other man had once been. He stares a moment, before slowly sitting back down, his stomach in his throat.

He doesn’t know what to do, if he should do anything besides sit there. The bar is overwhelming now without someone or something to focus on, a headache clawing up the back of his spine and digging in behind his eyes. Gepard sinks into the seat, avoiding looking at the writhing crowd of laughing and dancing people. He finds himself looking back to the bar constantly, as if Sampo is waiting for him there. But he isn’t. The bar remains unmanned, numerous customers having climbed over the counter to help themselves now, standing on barstools and sending glass bottles clattering to the floor.

His anxious silence is interrupted quickly; “you look like you need some company!”

“No,” Gepard said instantly, looking up at the man leaning heavily on the table. He’s young, a thin but tall man practically holding himself up against the table. He isn’t wearing a mask, his grin still wide like the artificial smiles he’s seen on numerous predatory masks on other dancers. His eyes are fixated on him in a way that makes Gepard’s skin crawl.

“Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that!” The man coos, falling forward onto the table and leaning on his elbows, his chin in his palm. “Why’re you all alone in the corner like this? You should be having fun, dancing, drinking! No need to be all standoffish. I bet I can get you smiling in no time. What’s your name, friend?”

“I’m not your friend,” Gepard growls, standing up, “and I definitely don’t need you accosting me. Goodbye.” He really shouldn’t leave, should stay so that Sampo can find him easily, but the man keeps leaning closer and closer and Gepard feels like a cornered animal. He glances away, ignoring the man’s whined protest, squinting against his headache as he scans the crowd. He steps away, figuring he can just sit at the bar by the drunk, cackling patrons and wait for Sampo there.

He barely takes a step before a hand circles his wrist, fingers feeling cold like a chain, tight against his skin. Gepard bristles, his lip curled as he turns towards the grinning Fool. “Let. Go.”

“Why?” He giggles, pouts, tugs on Gepard’s hand. “Letting go is no fun! You know, you’d be happier if you just danced with me, let me buy you a drink. Why not have a good time, let loose, have some fun?”

Gepard responds by trying to rip his hand out of the man’s grip, but he falls forward with the movement, so close it’s suffocating. His breath smells of liquor as he laughs, eyes shining and too bright. “Ooooh you wanna slow dance instead? Why not just say so? I still haven’t caught your name, though. How ‘bout we trade? You can call me--”

“I don’t want to know,” Gepard growls out, lip curled. He flexes his fingers, feeling the cold swirl around his gauntlet as he clenches his fist and holds it back to strike. “Let go of me right now, or you’ll regret it.”

“How rude.” His smile is sharp, voice like a hiss. “Dance with me, and I’ll forgive you.”

Gepard gave in to the hot anger crawling up his throat, hoping that this wouldn’t cause Sampo too much trouble. “No. Don’t say I didn’t warn--”

He lungs forward as if to tackle him into the other crowded tables behind them. Gepard goes to meet him with his fist but doesn’t get the chance. There’s a surge of movement, a flash of red and purple and blue and the cackling, growling huff of indistinguishable words.that crackle in his ears. A clawed hand on his sternum pushes him back, the man flailing and shoved back like a marionette wrenched by its strings. The man yelps, something cracking as he’s shoved back onto the table and his head collides with the wood. Sampo towers over him as he yanks the man up by his shirt.

“He said no.” Sampo’s voice is a fierce, screeching sound. The fog in the air almost dissolves, the music and the lights secondary to Sampo’s presence. The people nearest have all gone inhumanely still, heads craned in their direction as they pause in their card games or conversations or dancing. Gepard finds himself stunned still, too.

“W-wait!” The man gasps, sounding choked on his own words. He goes to grab at Sampo’s arm but jerks away as if afraid to even touch him, struggling to kick back and away from him. “I-It’s-- I didn’t--”

“Did you not hear him the first time? Or the second?” Sampo grits out his words between his teeth, a sort of dangerous, humourous tone in his voice; a warning. “What makes you think you could grab him like that? Huh? Tell me.”

The man is shaking, eyes wide and manic as he breathes heavily, frantically. “I-I-I don’t--” He gulps, glancing around and behind Sampo as if for someone to save him. Not a single person makes a move, says a word, does anything but gawk with a sort of stunned, scrutinizing stare. His eyes landed on Gepard for only a second before Sampo shook him, saying something low that Gepard didn’t hear. “I-I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please, I thought-- I didn’t know that he’s y-your toy already. Please don’t--”

“Toy?” Sampo’s laughter is something shrill and echoing; crunching glass between teeth, violin chords snapping, the echoing ringing of bells, a bellowing horn. It makes Gepard wince slightly, but the people around recoil and groan in pain, hands over their ears as they lurch back. The man in Sampo’s grip looks like he’s going to be sick.

“You are,” Sampo hums, his tight grip on the man’s shirt shaking, “are the worst kind of Fool. The kind who find their sick fun in messing with others? Toying with people and stringing them along. Is that right?” He accentuates his words with a chuckle, shaking the man slightly. Gepard is lost on what to do--until he sees Sampo reach for his dagger. “Is this really Elation, to you? Is there really any joy in making other people suffer, using them? You should thank Aha for not caring how you get your sick thrills, because I won’t--”

Sampo!” Gepard grabs his hand, his fingers a shackle around Sampo’s wrist and his other hand harsh on his shoulder. Sampo tenses and goes to twist towards him, giving Gepard the faintest flash of his face. His eyes are not just green, but swirling with specks of colour like confetti and glowing beyond what should be possible. His skin is too smooth, discoloured and unblemished and sparkling in a way that is entirely alien to Gepard. He sees his eyes widen, something sparking under his irises, before Sampo ducks his head away again. He’s rigid under Gepard’s grip.

“Sampo,” Gepard gulps, pulling back on Sampo’s arm, peeling at his grip around the hilt of his dagger. The man still held in Sampo’s grip whimpers and begs but Gepard ignores it. “That’s enough. Just put him down and we can leave and never come back, okay?”

“But--”

“I’m alright,” Gepard interrupts, already knowing the words caught on Sampo’s tongue, “this wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. I’m fine. I’d be better if we’d leave, though.”

A muscle in Sampo’s jaw tenses. Gepard just watches him and ignores the weight of the attention on their backs. He watches as the tense, frigid line of Sampo’s shoulders slowly melts and softens. Gepard loosens his grips as Sampo sighs. He lets go of the men, unceremoniously dropping him and letting him fall back onto the table. He sucks in a panicked breath, not looking at either Sampo or Gepard as he scrambles frantically off the table, giving Sampo a wide berth as he bolts.

The music is dulled, a faint pulse in the air. The entire Tavern feels different, tense like everyone was waiting for Sampo to snap again, to attack anyone. Gepard ignores it all, ignores the way masked faces follow him as he takes Sampo’s dagger from his hand, runs a hand across his back. “You’re done with what you needed to do?”

Sampo’s response was a delayed nod. “Yeah. Yeah. Sorry for the wait.” Gepard just shakes his head, Sampo watching Gepard out of the corner of his eye as Gepard holsters his dagger, intertwines their fingers. “Okay, good. If you can show me the way out, then?” He squeezes Sampo’s hand; it takes a moment for Sampo to squeeze back.

“Okay,” he sucks in a breath, exhaling harshly and shaking his head, “okay! Let’s get out of here!” Gepard is all too glad to be pulled along by Sampo, his grip a reassurance as Sampo takes him through the room. Heads swivel in mechanical unison to follow them, people once again parting for Sampo as he tugs Gepard through the dancefloor, moving in a strange pattern until they escape the crowd, a familiar door in front of them. Sampo doesn’t look back at him once, but hesitates a moment.

He spins around, towards the back of the bar. “Hey!” He yells out. Gepard follows his line of sight to the bar; the inhuman bartender stands behind it once more, but they hold themself… strangely, now. Their numerous arms shiver and shake as they messily prepare drinks, and at the sound of Sampo’s yell they jump and recede into themself, the crying mask gyrating.

“Don’t forget our deal, my friend!” Sampo bellows out, one hand by his mouth. His teeth are just a bit too sharp when he smirks. “Or I’ll take matters into my own hands!” The bartender puts their dozens of hands over their mask before ducking behind the bar, Sampo’s laughter seeming to make the liquor bottles shake on the shelves.

Gepard doesn’t get a chance to ask, though, confusion bubbling up his chest. Sampo doesn’t look at him, just squeezes his hand again before turning and shoving the front door open.

It’s quiet outside, just as it had been before. Leaving the Tavern is an instant relief; the hot, too-sweet weight of the air had been suffocating. Gepard can’t help but breathe in deeply and let out a sigh, even as Sampo still drags him towards their ship.

Gepard enters the cockpit and collapses into the passenger chair, knocking his head back against the wall. Sampo’s movements are a relaxing sound, his presence enough to calm him down. Gepard just focuses on the scuffling sound of Sampo’s footsteps, the mechanical whirring of the engine coming to life, the thruming of the propellers lifting them from the dock and the clattering, rhythmic sound of the wings as Sampo guides them through the stars. The faint, dull ache in his head fades as time passes, as they get farther and farther away from that damned bar.

Sampo is the one to break the silence, his words making Gepard snap his eyes open; “I’ll take you straight back to Belobog. It won’t be long. Jarilo-IV isn’t technically that far from here and so I’ll make it quick--”

“What?” Gepard sits up quickly, snapping his head towards Sampo. The passenger seats are situated behind the pilot’s, leaving Gepard to just stare at the back to Sampo’s head. Stars and debris and various celestial bodies pass by them in streaks of colour, their movement a blur through the cosmos. Sampo doesn’t look back at him, doesn’t look at him at all as he speaks. Gepard desperately wants him to look at him. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, Gepard! You don’t… you don’t need to say anything! I’ll take you home as soon as I can and--”

“No.” Gepard bursts to his feet, marches to Sampo. The other man jumps when Gepard slams his hands down on the back of his chair, forcing him to spin around and face him. Sampo’s face is… back to what Gepard is used to. No signs of needle-point teeth or confetti eyes. But he still doesn’t meet Gepard’s gaze. “What in Qlipoth’s name are you saying, Sampo?”

“I-it’s-- you don’t need to worry, Geppie! I get it, okay? I get it. No need to say anything, I’ll… I’ll just take you back and be on my way--”

“What makes you think I want to leave you?” Gepard barks out, his voice a harsh noise. He grips either armrest tightly, leaning into Sampo’s space. Sampo cranes his head to avoid looking at him, making Gepard make a strangled, groaning noise in the back of his throat. “After everything, you think I want to return home now?”

“Yes! Obviously,” Sampo scoffs, finally meeting Gepard’s eyes. His expression is pinched. “C’mon, Geppie. That… that was too much, admit it. I put you through that, and now you want nothing to do with me.”

“You cannot. Decide that for me,” Gepard growls out, narrowing his eyes. “You can’t just decide for me, Sampo. It’s not your choice to make if I want to be here, with you, or not. And I do. There’s nowhere else I want to be.” Sampo’s eyes flash with something Gepard doesn’t quite catch, but his expression hardens again. Gepard claps a hand over Sampo’s mouth before he can say a word, his protests muffled against Gepard’s palm. “No! I’m talking now, so listen. I have no clue what happened in there, what that place was, what that place did to you. I’m frankly, confused, and concerned, and will absolutely ask you a lot of questions later. But that doesn’t make me want to leave you. And when I do go back to Belobog, you are coming with me, got it?”

Sampo is silent, completely still. Gepard doesn’t look away, doesn’t back down as Sampo traces his gaze over Gepard’s face, catching on his eyes. His eyes shine again, just the slightest bit. Gepard gives him just a moment before he breaks the silence again. “Do you understand me, Sampo? I’m not going anywhere.”

He feels him exhale against his palm, letting Sampo peel his hand off of his face with his mismatched fingers, holding his hand gently, reverent. “Are you sure?”

Gepard doesn’t hesitate: “Of course I am.” He stands back up, Sampo’s grip on his hand lingering a moment like he’s afraid to let go. Gepard just watches as Sampo looks away, his mouth a thin line, his brow furrowing and relaxing like he’s trying not to argue. Eventually he sighs and let’s Gepard go, his relief tangible in the air.

“Besides,” Gepard says with a slight grin, crossing his arms, “you still need to take me to the giant space turtle.” Sampo laughs, glad for the escape Gepard is providing him. His smile is still a bit strained, Sampo’s vulnerability still seeping through the cracks, but he doesn’t seem so… frantic anymore. “Of course, of course! How could I forget.”

He hums, spinning around to the control panels. Gepard still has no idea what Sampo is doing as he runs his fingers over screens, but he feels the ship slowing, halting a moment before shifting directions through the vacuum of space. Gepard collapses back in his seat as they set off once more.

“I do have one question, though.” Sampo tenses, making Gepard quick to finish his thought. “Are all Masked Fools’ Taverns… like that?” Sampo’s laughter is a cackle, his head thrown back. It’s soothing, comforting, familiar. Gepard’s smile is uncontrollable as Sampo looks back over his shoulder and smirks at him.

“I promise you, they are not,” he snorts. He hums a moment, rolling his shoulders. “Some of ‘em are just as unhinged as that, yes. That’s one of the worst, though. All a bunch of old fashioned Fools! None of them know how to really have fun, I assure you. Some other Taverns, though… they can be a lot of fun.”

“We should visit one. A good one.” Gepard tacks on quickly when Sampo wrinkles his nose at him, clearly teasing by the way he rolls his eyes. “Of course. Some of ‘em make some amazing cocktails! Ones you can have, by the way. Maybe in Epsilon, but… well, no, actually. Epsilon tends to have some half decent Fools in it, but they’d still try and, uh, bamboozle you.”

“Sounds like fun,” Gepard says drily, pointedly rolling his eyes when Sampo wrinkles his nose at him. Sampo continues on with a hum, looking up at the softly passing stars. “Uh… where could I… oh! I could take you to Avalon!”

“Is that a Tavern?”

“Yep! The tavernkeeper isn’t actually a Masked Fool. She owns it though, I think she won the place in a game of blackjack? I don’t know, that’s what her husband told me. I met the Queen through him, actually. He’s some former knight or whatever--the most populated planet in that galaxy has some sort of monarchy thing going on, I dunno. But he’s a clutz and I stole from him at one point. He carries a lot of credits on him at all times. But then he just gave it to me and invited me to dinner! I thought he was coming on to me and considering how much cash he had… but uh, anyways. I haven’t seen the Queen in ages! Last I saw her she said she was gonna take over the galaxy system her Tavern is in, and uh, honestly I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“She’s a Queen?”

“Well… I dunno. We all just called her that. She’s scary so no one questions it-- in a good way! A good kind of scary, I promise.”

“I’m not doubting you,” Gepard chuckles, “I’m just… it’s nice, hearing about people you know, places you’ve been. Before, I mean.”

“Before Jarilo?” He says it with a scoff, but Gepard can hear the fond tone in his voice. It makes his chest warm, a sort of contentment settling in his bones. Sampo likes to complain about it, the constant cold, the standoffish people in Belobog, the loss of his criminal history, but Gepard knows better. He sees it in the way he asks about Serval, questions if Gepard has heard how Natasha is doing, how his city is holding up in his absence. It’s obvious in the way Sampo’s ramblings have started to center around Belobog and the Underworld.

Sampo still pretends that he won't return, sometimes. That there's nothing left for him, that Gepard's planet doesn't have any reason for him to stay. Gepard knows it's not true, even now. Especially now. Because Gepard will always be there, wanting him. No matter how long Sampo has wandered the universe or what he's done before, who he was before.

“You know,” Gepard whispers, a secret. “Giovanni said something. Interesting things.”

“Giovanni.” Sampo hisses his name like a curse, slamming his fist on the control panels. The ship lurches to the side just slightly before Sampo corrects it. “That bastard! I can't believe he just left you there! Oh, if Gio thinks he'll get any favours out of Sampo Koski--”

“He said you're old,” Gepard continues, “well, kind of. That you've been around a long time. That time is… Strange, throughout the universe.” He pauses to watch Sampo, to see how he forces himself to relax, shuffling In his chair. “...and that you're old.”

“Don't worry.” Sampo's voice is a hushed tone. his expression as he looks back at Gepard isn't quite apologetic, Isn't quite sad. “I've been careful! Planned the routes out perfectly. Time won't escape you back in Belobog.”

It isn't what Gepard means. They both know it. That Gepard wants to know Sampo, to peel him back and see who he is, what more there is to him. Sampo is infinite, varied; Gepard feels like he could spool through what makes him him forever. He wonders, sometimes, if he can know him fully, if even Sampo knows the entirety of himself. He wonders, and finds it doesn't change how he feels.

“I love you,” Gepard says, because it's forcing its way out of him, from the depths of him. Because it's true. Sampo's smile is blinding, his ears starting to burn red. “Love you too, you softy.”

He hums, thinking a moment. “...what else did Gio say?”

“That he's surprised you could settle down with me, I think?”

“I'm going to murder him next I see him.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

#sampard #sampo koski #gepard landau #honkai star rail #fanfiction #in the bones #sampo is an emanator ofc in this. and it makes him freaky #theres a lot of like. hc type shit in this #also the 'green chapel' is a reference to gawain and the green knight #and the queen and her husband at the end are the fae queen and lanval in the lais lanval by marie de france #and like. avalon. ofc.#uhhhh what else did i shove in here. theres prob more but i dont remember #also this is 9317 words. i thought it was 6k. what the fuck #im postin it here in like . an embarassed anxious way before postin to ao3. since its so long #oh OALSO ALSO. i was torn between naming the tavern the green chapel. for the fae/green knight reference. or 'happy trail' from mp.100 #cuz that was funny to me

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cultivating-saplings · 6 months

Text

In honour of 4/13x15 I'm posting (a very slightly edited version of) the paper I wrote on the Unofficial Homestuck Collection for one of my classes last term. The language/tone is a bit more academic than what I would usually put up on here, but it's exam season so...

Don’t Turn Your Back on the Body:

The Resurrection of Homestuck After the Death of Flash

Digital media is, broadly speaking, very difficult to preserve. The rapid pace of technological development means that obsolescence and decay present a consistent threat to the availability of natively digital works. Most computers produced in 2023 no longer have built in CD drives, and I feel fairly confident in asserting that none are being produced with floppy disk readers outside of hobbyist spaces. Issues with the accessibility of physically stored digital media can be mitigated (at least for now) by the use of external readers, but the preservation of fully digital media, born and hosted in its entirety on the Internet, is a different beast entirely.

This is, in part, an issue of pure volume; no one organization could ever hope to archive the vast amounts of stuff that the Internet is constantly producing, let alone organize it into a resource that could be used effectively. Like Borges’ cartographers who created “a Map of the Empire whose size was that of the Empire,” to fully archive the Internet would be to replicate it in its entirety. Thus scope becomes a central question of fully digital archiving.

The Internet Archive, which also operates the Wayback Machine, answers that question with a resounding and all-encompassing ‘yes’ — their stated goal is to “provide Universal Access to All Knowledge,” but even this comes with caveats. The organization freely permits members of the public to upload files to the archive and save pages on the Wayback Machine, but the work carried out by its official volunteers is more curated, and prioritizes webpages which have been identified as particularly important.

The Internet Archive is very effective within its own space, yes, but it has its limits. When the piece of work you are trying to archive is composed of not just static text and images, but longform animations and complex browser-based games, where do you put it? What do you do when the software necessary to access these elements of the work has been taken offline? And what happens if the people who were supposed to safeguard it fail to do so?

These were the issues that the fans of Homestuck faced in 2020 as the impending deactivation of Flash loomed on the horizon.

But first, before I properly explain what the Unofficial Homestuck Collection really is and why it is so effective as a digital archive, let me tell you about Homestuck.

Frustrated with the poorly implemented official preservation of the comic, and with a lot of free time on his hands, one fan began the Unofficial Homestuck Collection as a personal project during lockdown, during the “depths of 2020.” As the project changed hands and more fans became involved over the following years, its true scope came into focus: the Collection would preserve not only Homestuck itself, in its entirety and with its Flash-dependent pages intact, but also as much of its contextual material as possible, thus making it a prime example of the effectiveness of fan-driven digital archiving and preservation. Because the people who created the Collection are long standing fans of Homestuck, they know which pieces of peripheral material will provide the context the comic demands. The Collection preserves Homestuck as a text in a way that would be impossible in an analogue format, creating an archive both of the work and of the experience of reading it in a serialized format.

Andrew Hussie began* Homestuck on April 13th of 2009, and published it serially on mspaintadventures.com, his personal website at the time, until its conclusion on April 13th, 2016. Prior to beginning Homestuck, Hussie had been publishing short webcomics and pieces of fiction for several years on his older website, Team Special Olympics, since 2004, which had gained him a small but very loyal following. This following was centered mostly around the forum attached to the TSO website, which hosted the first of Hussie’s ‘MS Paint Adventures,’ Jailbreak, in September of 2006. Jailbreak was a short comic which Hussie produced as a collaborative writing game on these forums, in the style of early text adventures.

Beginning with the prompt, “You wake up locked in a deserted jail cell, completely alone. There is nothing at all in your cell, useful or otherwise,” Hussie then wrote the rest of the comic according to the first comment posted after every page. This, perhaps predictably, resulted in a barely coherent mess of a story.

Following the conclusion of Jailbreak after a short 134 pages, Hussie would produce two more comics prior to beginning Homestuck: the unfinished Bard Quest (June-July 2007) and Problem Sleuth (March 2008-April 2009), which was his longest work so far at the time of its conclusion. Problem Sleuth in particular represented a substantial increase in production quality and general coherency over Jailbreak, as Hussie gained experience using the MSPA forums as tools for collaborative storytelling, reigning in the meandering narrative by allowing himself to be more selective about which forum responses he followed.

Hussie would continue this more controlled style of forum collaboration throughout the first three Acts of Homestuck, which followed a much more focused story than any of his prior work, thanks to his decision to use reader input only in specific parts of the comic. In the introduction to the print edition of the first Act, Hussie described his own role during the production of these first Acts as “dungeon master, a game engine responding to input, and an improv comic all in one.” During the process of writing Act 4, Hussie stopped taking prompts from readers entirely, and would construct the rest of the comic ostensibly as its sole author.

‘Okay,’ you might now be thinking, ‘you’ve given me the context, but what the hell is Homestuck? And what’s it about?’ Well, to wildly oversimplify a very complex piece of media, Homestuck is a webcomic about four young online friends who play a video game that causes the end of their universe and grants them the power to create a new one as they see fit. It is a story about growing up and realizing you’ve been forever changed by your experiences, a story about leaving behind the life you knew and constructing a new one. It is also a story about time travel and paradoxes, genetics and cloning, a large number of aliens, a possibly larger number of puppets (at least one of which is sentient), and an unfortunate amount of clowns.

This story slowly unfolds over the course of 8126 pages, 817,929 words, and 166 animated panels, 95 of which contained some degree of interactivity and all of which total over four hours in length. Most of the comic’s pages consist of a main image, usually a short looping gif, accompanied by a text description or dialogue, which is almost always written in the format and style of online chat-logs between characters. As mentioned previously, however, these simpler gif-and-description pages are interspersed with longer videos, animated in Flash and soundtracked by one of Hussie’s several collaborators.

The first of these animated panels was uploaded a few weeks into Homestuck’s publication — an animated opening title-card for the comic, scored ominously with sounds of howling wind and windchimes. This first Flash panel was relatively simple, but the next would introduce a bespoke soundtrack (“Harlequin” by Mark Hadley), and the third would include simple interactivity. These soundtracked animations and interactive segments increased in scope and complexity over the course of the comic’s run; the final animated page in the comic, “[S] Collide,” comes in at nearly twenty minutes in length, and some of the larger interactive segments can take upwards of two hours to fully explore.

While some of the later interactive pages were developed in an engine based on HTML5, most of Homestuck would be built using Adobe Flash, and would depend on the program for basic functionality. This would prove disastrous for the comic’s long term preservation. Flash was very popular, and had become ubiquitous by the early 2010s, but it had security issues which were easy to exploit, its range was fairly limited in terms of what kinds of animations it could produce, and, as its most fatal flaw, it couldn’t run on mobile. Thus with the expanding use of smartphones and tablets, Flash became less and less practical as a tool for web developers, and Adobe began slowly preparing to kill it. On December 31st, 2020, Adobe sent Flash off to the farm where it could frolic and play in the digital sunshine, leaving many online communities facing a crisis. How do you preserve a text when its foundations have crumbled?

With Homestuck using Flash in such an integral way, the issue of preservation was an important one. After the finale, Hussie would post some short post-credits stories to Snapchat from October 2016 to August 2017, as well as a longer epilogue in April 2019, before stepping away from any formal involvement with the comic in 2020. In 2018, Hussie had given the distribution rights for Homestuck to VIZ Media, which primarily handled the English-language publication of several manga series, and had left the rights to the IP and the freedom to produce new work to former collaborators. Thus it was VIZ who took on the task of officially preserving Homestuck against the death of Flash.

To say their efforts were unsatisfactory would, I think, be paying them too great a compliment. The complex and highly detailed Flash animations were replaced with embedded YouTube links to low-quality screen-captures of the originals. The hours-long walkaround games were not translated at all, replaced with ‘choose your own adventure’ style pages of text and links. The official version of Homestuck as it currently exists fails to capture a lot of what made the comic work, because it removes a lot of the gamified elements of the comic that are so integral to its storytelling.

There are many snapshots of the website from before the walkaround games were taken down on the Wayback Machine, but the Flash emulator that archive.org uses is very inconsistent, frequently becoming stuck on looping loading screens or failing to process assets correctly. While the dubious preservation of the long Flash animations is a real issue on its own, the lack of any attempt to replicate the format of these longform games represents the loss of something essential to the comic. Homestuck is, throughout the whole of its story, intertwined with the visual and cultural language of video games. The loss of the complex interactivity of these panels fundamentally changes how the reader is permitted to engage with them and, by extension, with Homestuck’s narrative as a whole. The official version of Homestuck that exists online is no longer complete.

This incredibly poor preservation was the impetus behind the creation of the Unofficial Homestuck Collection. In its most basic form, the Collection is simply a preserved and restored version of Homestuck, intact and in high quality, accessible through a downloadable client, rather than online — reducing the Collection down to this basic description does it a disservice. The Unofficial Homestuck Collection includes not just Homestuck, but all of Hussie’s prior work: Jailbreak, Bard Quest, and Problem Sleuth are in there, but so are the full contents of his first website, Team Special Olympics, alongside archived versions of his now-deleted accounts on various social media platforms, and copies of threads from the MSPA forums that he would later reference in the main comic. The Collection also includes material that Hussie released alongside Homestuck, like the in-fiction blog of one of the main characters, various short comics written by guest authors, and a full episode of an in-universe childrens’ cartoon.

These peripheral materials are interesting and provide context for some of the more obscure references throughout Homestuck, but many of them were not produced until well into the comic’s run, and assume an audience that is caught up with the most recent update, making them dangerously full of spoilers for the unaware new reader. This issue is solved by the appropriately named ‘new reader mode.’ One of a variety of useful accessibility tools included in the Collection, the new reader mode tracks which page a user has reached, and implements a universal spoiler cloak over the whole program, hiding all materials that were released after their most recent page’s publication. This tool is what transforms the Unofficial Homestuck Collection from an archive of a text, into an archive of an experience.

De Kosnik argues that fan-driven archiving serves as a way for fans to mediate their own temporal experience of a text, describing websites hosting fanworks as mechanisms which “maintain the possibility of individuals joining fandoms… long after a media text has ceased to air.” While De Kosnik’s focus is on archives of fanworks and their function in ongoing fan spaces, I would argue that this framework, which centers the impact of serialization on the dynamics of fan communities, fits extremely well when applied to the Unofficial Homestuck Collection. Homestuck was published serially over the course of seven years, accompanied by blog posts, side comics, music, and other pieces of peripheral media that were released in tandem with the comic itself.

Updates were highly anticipated events, and fan communities were structured around them — one user on Tumblr found an unlisted part of the MSPA forums where Hussie posted new pages before they were published, and this “MSPA Prophet” became a fixture of the fandom for their ability to predict when the next update would come. The event that was an update (or upd8, after the typing style of a popular character) was a central aspect of the experience of reading Homestuck during its publication, and it is one that is very difficult to recover now that the comic exists as a static, completed work. The Unofficial Homestuck Collection, through its new reader mode, functions as a solution to that absence. It does more than safeguard the reader against unwanted spoilers: it temporarily transforms Homestuck back into an incomplete text.

Homestuck makes use of the assumed preexisting knowledge of the reader, and their “intuitive familiarity” with various types of digital media and culture, especially ones which are inherently participatory. The story’s use of narrative motifs and referential easter-eggs allows Homestuck to function, in Hussie’s own words, as “both a story and a puzzle,” but that “There [are] a range of ways to interface with it[…] Failing to grasp everything shouldn’t preclude basic enjoyment, nor is it a symptom of failure by either the reader or the story.” In the most frequent example of repeated symbology in Homestuck, Hussie peppers the text with references to the number ‘413,’ simplified from April 13th, the day the comic began.

The story follows four friends who are all thirteen years old, many of the songs on the comic’s soundtrack are exactly four minutes and thirteen seconds long, and the timestamps on chat-logs show that characters frequently begin important conversations at precisely 4:13, to name just a few of the number’s appearances. The combination of puzzle and story in Homestuck extends beyond these kinds of motifs, however, and into the way Hussie employs referential humour.

Some of these references are fairly easy to catch; in Act 4, one of the main characters is gifted the Warhammer of Zillyhoo — a brightly coloured weapon which originally appeared in Problem Sleuth. Others, however, are much more obscure. The older brother of another main character runs a business creating bizarre, semi-ironic puppet pornography. Most of the audience read this as an absurdist joke about the internet’s love for offputting porn; the subset of fans who had been following Hussie for several years, or those who looked into Hussie’s early activity on the MSPA forums, however, would find themselves with new understanding of a long-running joke. This element of the experience of reading Homestuck is something that the Unofficial Homestuck Collection not only preserves, but makes readily accessible to the comic’s readers in a way that would not have been possible during the comic’s publication.

On a purely theoretical basis, I would argue that the Unofficial Homestuck Collection is valuable not just in the context of contemporary fan activity, but as a potentially valuable resource for future research. Homestuck is a foundational piece of the current cultural landscape, its influences permeating both digital and analog media in subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) ways.

Undertale, titan of online culture that it is, was created by Toby Fox, who was the composer behind a large amount of the music in Homestuck and was, during the game’s production, living in Andrew Hussie’s basement. Tamsyn Muir, author of the Locked Tomb tetralogy, began her writing career as a prominent figure in the Homestuck fandom on Tumblr and Archive of Our Own. Although the reach of her original work has thoroughly outgrown her fandom roots, Muir includes sly references to Homestuck in several places in her books. Hell, one of the animators working on Bluey, a cartoon aimed at very young children, included references to Homestuck in the backgrounds of episodes they worked on, as easter-eggs for the benefit of parents in the know. All of this is to say that Homestuck has its hooks deep within the culture of the Internet, and its impacts will, I think, be felt for a long time yet.

The Unofficial Homestuck Collection is certainly not immune to digital decay or link rot, but it is resistant to them, since it is hosted on a large and well established website (GitHub), and, once downloaded, can be accessed without an internet connection, and shared freely. For the hypothetical future researcher, the Collection contains resources to mitigate the frustration of trying to hunt down pieces of contextual or peripheral material by packaging them with the text itself — it functions like a sourcebook.

Bibliography

Bamboshu, and GiovanH. The Unofficial Homestuck Collection. 2020. https://bambosh.dev/unofficial-homestuck-collection/

De Kosnik, Abigail. Rogue Archives: Digital Cultural Memory and Media Fandom. Cambridge, Massachusetts: The MIT Press, 2016. https://doi.org/10.7551/mitpress/10248.001.0001.

Glaser, Tim. “Homestuck as a Game: A Webcomic between Playful Participation, Digital Technostalgia, and Irritating Inventory Systems.” In Comics and Videogames. Edited by Andreas Rauscher, Daniel Stein, and Jan-Noel Thon. 96–112. Routledge, 2021. https://doi.org/10.4324/9781003035466-8.

Hussie, Andrew. Homestuck. MS Paint Adventures, 2009-2016. https://homestuck.com.

Nakhaie, FS. “Reproduce and Adapt: Homestuck in Print and Digital (Re)Incarnations.” Convergence, 2022. https://doi.org/10.1177/13548565221141961.

Read MS Paint Adventures. “Statistics.” Last modified April 7, 2018. http://readmspa.org/stats/.

Veale, Kevin. “‘Friendship Isn’t an Emotion Fucknuts’: Manipulating Affective Materiality to Shape the Experience of Homestuck’s Story.” Convergence 25, no. 5-6 (2019): 1027–43. https://doi.org/10.1177/1354856517714954.

#ray speaks #homestuck #413 #the unofficial homestuck collection #andrew hussie #uhhhh #homestuck studies #i fucking guess #if you notice any errors in this don't hesitate to let me know! i always try to keep living versions of all my old essays #so that if something new comes along i can add it for future reference or easier editing if i ever want to get it published #also this is Fucking Long and i will not apologize

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