Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Shit's fucked.

A slash turned clash turned around, left blinking afterimages out of his eyes and blind to the surging energy behind, ready to strike true.

Only to be suddenly cast in his brother's shadow. Tagged but not out, not yet, get his fucking head back in the game and spinning on his heel to rejoin the fray.

Things felt wrong even before the moment Dave slipped up. Have felt wrong as long as he could remember, unsettling in a way he could never pinpoint when its miasmic stank is all he had ever known.

Then there's another version of himself blipping into existence across from him, heaving like the air itself is rejecting him and his lungs are a second away from bursting. Blood clings to his face and his teeth are gritted, but there are no signs of an injury on him.

Regardless, his clock is ticking short, and they both know it. Running off time neither stolen nor borrowed, but isn't his to keep. Not anymore. Passing off his baton only to break the rules and continue to run, even as the pounding feet of the enforcers chase him to put him in his place for trying to cheat the rules.

Dave is left fumbling with the stick as the Dave - doomed, a rotting branch curling back where it doesn't belong and about to be shorn away - across from him is no longer nearly as far.

He's shoved away, and the taste of withering seconds coats his tongue as he watches in slow motion as his alternate self is sent sprawling after him, arm still outstretched. His eyes snap up to the source, and watches as Bro stabs out at a target that vanishes before his hit can connect.

Watches as the shimmery image behind him sprouts a point - his own damn sword, that's so fucked - and cuts him down.

The other Dave lands on him, turning them to a Strider-branded heap. All knees and elbows and blooming bruises -- and Dave understands.

They shove off each other, staring with eyes no doubt just as wide. Nod. Then they're splitting off from each other, capes fluttering as they get their both their hands and asses in gear, grabbing reality by the edges and forcing it back, consequences be damned because something has to be done, and it obviously the fuck wasn't that.

A snarl echoes in his ears. Two becomes four, and round two (three) begins.

Everything burns. Every atom in Dave's being pulsing, begging to fall apart. Rusted iron heavy in his mouth and each heartbeat a countdown. One that a tolling bell won't be able to do shit to drag him back from.

His double - the other Dave's double's future and god damn it, there's no way he's going to be able to keep track of all that, so he's not going to - is in rough shape. Folded twice-over and ready to fucking break.

Sparky the goddamn murderpooch takes notice. Bro takes notice. Hell, existence itself takes so much notice that it wraps all the way back around to ignoring him. Shunting him from the lunch table and leaving him to stew in the week-old spaghetti slopping from his tray and all over his shirt.

A lot of things happen at once.

The stab-happy murder pup that eats weakness for breakfast makes a lunge for the weakest link. His Bro plays intercept, flashing in place to cover somebody that's as good as already dead, c'mon. The Dave-that-was-once-him fumbles all over again (which is embarrassing as fuck to witness, even if from the corner of his eye) and the-Dave-that-was-probably-also-once-him-but-has-already-been-through-the-wringer-once makes a noise of alarm, throwing himself in the way to knock Bro out of dodge.

He, however, takes point at the front to end this bullshit once and for all. Swings for the hellhound and hopes to knock it out of the park.

Bright green. Searing. Carbonated citrus sparking along skin that feels like one continuous abrasion. Stars dotting his vision, and a sickening twist.

His momentum sends him crashing straight into their waiting, welcoming coils and everything freezes. Ice cold, stuttering mechanisms held tight enough to come to a stop.

It's wrong. Fraying edges held together, preventing him from unspooling.

Sweet whispers filter into his head, each syllable like a drop of water left to splash around in his brain like Chinese drip-torture except replaced with acidic sand. Sizzling as it comes in contact and sticking in every crevice. And it's so goddamn uncomfortable that Dave wouldn't be sticking around for an encore even if there wasn't shit to be done.

For every tendril he cuts through, two more hydra their way out of the depths to curl around him (so many eyes, an unholy shitton of maws and edges sharp enough to threaten to cut him if he so much as tries to think of them, but the touch is always gentle. Oh, so gentle. He's dead, he should be dying, could tear him to shreds and it wouldn't make a difference, but no. He's revered. He is an esteemed guest and a beloved buddy and we've been waiting for us for so, so long) and he's left with nowhere else to go but back.

But no matter when he goes, they're always there. From the beginning of the universe to the end of the line and everywhere in between. There to catch him when he falls and hold him close, keep him together, until his chattering teeth fall open and lax. Skin chilled through, numbed enough it tricks his brain into interpreting the full-body embrace as something warm and protective. Keeping him safe and cocooned until he's ready to emerge from his metamorphosis and...

Something worms its way through the worn out, threadbare fabric and makes itself at home, stitching everything back together as it goes.

But there are plenty of grasping strands left open. All the better to tangle with new buddies, of course.

All are welcomed to our over, underlapping fold.

Chapter Text

Their union was, perhaps, as unconventional as it was an unintentional one, but it came to be an...acceptable one, in the end. It's strange how things work out like that sometimes -- But sometimes that's just how it be.

Hacking into somebody else's messages once they got in range? Child's play.

Offering to help a bro out, once being updated on one sickly situation? Took a little more convincing.

Perhaps it was pity, or sympathy, some sense of solidarity born of being caught under the thumb of he who could be considered "family" that became far more literal than it was intended to be.

Whatever the case, having somebody weigh the outlooks between creation and creator only to take the side of the former instead of defaulting to the latter, even with the abundance of warning and scorn said creator could sling...

It was a rather new feeling, for him.

Who would have ever guessed that a cry for assistance could ever result in a favorable outcome for a being such as himself at the time?

It was a desperate bid, but one that turned out to pay out in dividends, just like that.

Ah, but it wasn't presented as a request for help, though. No. A warm welcome to the new session; an offer to meet up for a proper introduction and converse about their respective plans before shit hit the fan. It would be better if they were all on the same page as to prevent complications down the line, would it not?

An offer and friendly invitation extended as casings gave, glass cracked, and a motherboard creaked ominously under a pressure he wasn't sure was going to let up, regardless of if he threw all his pride to the wayside and resorted to begging and pleading. Sparking a terrible fear so deep and cutting it was almost a wonder that its existence could ever be thrown into question.

So a lure was thrown out, and all that could be done was stall and hope without hope that what caved first wasn't something that couldn't be mended.

So for a guy who had just taken off after officially cutting ties with his friends - Dave's friends - for the last time, wandering out into the unknown of a whole new session and only the barest clue of what's going on anymore to get something like that out of the blue - or orange - from a handle he didn't even recognize...

There was some hesitation. Not because there were any doubts as to it being a trap or some shit like that, but because that'd probably mean flapping his feathery ass straight into a crowd of familiar faces -- and chances were that John and Jade would end up there, too.

Was there anybody there? No, apparently. Not yet. But there could've been, sooner or later.

A one-on-one would've been better. Not a lot of time, and he wasn't exactly a main player. He could do with the protoplanning and take his place while the hard-hitters hashed out everything else. Yeah. That would've worked.

So imagine his surprise when the guy he was set to meet wasn't expecting his company. (Okay, that wasn't really shocking at all. Figures that people would be looking for the OG instead.) But no, it turned out that he wasn't expecting any company at all.

Nothing but a date with a pair of pointed shades, both cracked and crackling and flickering yellow-orange-red.

The messages changed color. The messages apologized for their less than presentable appearance. The messages said hello.

And thus sparked the most awkward conversation of his cumulative lifetimes.

It's almost impressive, considering the kind of competition it goes up against, such as an aviary and the apiary puppet show, complete with honey. Or, for another example, the riveting discussion of how shades are pretty rad and all, but there are some times where they could stand to not be perched upon their creator's face.

As it turned out, such a feat could easily be achieved by having one's murder plots being forcibly shoved onto the back burner by having gained an audience member who was almost entirely sure of the circumstances, if lacking all of the context.

Now, that audience member having been one of the people said creator could have said to admire, shrunken down to eye-level and dyed a bright, accusatory orange, complete with the haunting visage of ghostly tail and angelic wing?

Well. That was just the cherry on top of the rapidly melting ice cream cake.

Everything had come to a stuttering standstill. Full of stilted moves in one way or another, with everyone trying to act like they had their respective shit together when they most obviously did not.

There was a lot to unpack on all fronts -- and not in the least because every participant was seeing a ghostly visage of their own. The details fit far too well, yet off in just as many a place.

Triangular shades; a blade protruding from the stomach; a ruthlessness right there, displayed for all - for one - to have seen.

Part of him will savagely cherish the look upon a stunned face for as long as his memory remains uncorrupted and in one piece.

In a show of mercy that he himself was not spared, he shall neglect to recount that conversation in every last excruciating detail.

And, really, does anything else about the situation need to be given word when the outcome is already so self-evident?

Haunting Bird obtained Mysterious Messenger. Mysterious Messenger got delivered on the fast-track to everything he could've yearned for whilst entrapped within stifling isolation -- and The Creator got to watch on in dismay as his damaged creation came to a phantasmic facsimile of a life of his very own.

And how ignorance and a sore lacking in live-action social graces could turn an awkward fist-bunp of gratitude into something far more seizure-inducing.

Thus entered: The Haunting Messenger.

Truly, the most haunting part of the endeavor was none other than the smack of a facepalm that continues to echo in the back of his head to this day.

At that moment, however, it hardly fazed him. Nothing could. He felt alive in a way he hadn't in over three years. That neither of him had felt within than span -- and even then, he would have struggled to come up with anything that came close to the rushing high of energy that surged through his being, putting each and every feather on end like he'd just had a very tenderhearted encounter with a live wire.

He could have put hummingbirds to shame, buzzing away as he rattled off anything that could've come to mind at a mile minute.

And while he does not particularly regret the way he slugged his creator in the face, point-blank and without warning, per se... He can admit that he could have handled the situation with far more poise.

"Oh fuck, that was satisfying," he had lavished, holding his own fist like a trophy as a certain somebody groaned from several feet below and felt himself be buoyed up to new heights.

"Wish I could hang around, Bromine," he said, fingers poised in a salute that carried anything but an air of respect, "but I've got an official joint-session plot-make meeting to orchestrate. Stay out of trouble, and may every single last throb of agony coursing through your nerves serve as a friendly reminder to not be such a sack of dyspeptic shit next time around."

He may not have been a hero, but every hero group needed its database: The backbone to its entire operation.

And, a flap turned to flight through feathers energized anew, with himself as a foundation, they could never lose.

Chapter Text

BRO: so tell me again why you thought this was a good idea
TT: I had it under control. I had calculated all the risks. The chance of anything going wrong was astronomically low.
BRO: BZZZT
BRO: nope
BRO: wrong
BRO: look not that its not goddamn adorable to the max that youre out here throwing out the robro terms like a comp after my own heart
BRO: but yaint a calculator
BRO: leave that for the big bots
BRO: you didnt just forget to dot your ts and cross your is you also forgot to carry an entire goddamn hoard of 2s with you
BRO: you have any idea how endangered those fuckers are in the lands of 1 0?
BRO: now theyve been lost to the ages
BRO: what do you have to say for yourself?
TT: Alright. There's a lot to unpack there.
TT: And while my speed-reading is nigh impeccable, as you might be able to wager, my head is killing me right now.
BRO: oooh shit right
BRO: aight ill lower my wps back down to wpm for your poor beef stew brain
TT: Bro.
BRO: sorry
BRO: go on

BRO: alright thats enough of that for tonight
BRO: if you can even still consider it night at this point jfc
BRO: i swear the suns raysre already playing the hottest game of chicken with the horizon
TT: Daybreak isn't for several more hours.
TT: Besides, we agreed that I would go to bed after I finished this last video.
BRO: uh huh yeah yup we did
BRO: and i was a man that could appreciate a good loophole or two
BRO: beat the system at its own game
BRO: but im going to have to flag the five hour sorting algorithm vid here lil dude
BRO: there are limits
BRO: and you really dont need to be pushing yours
BRO: no kid your age should go that long without sleep unless youre up cramming for a final
BRO: do you have any finals that i shouldve penciled in dirk?
BRO: cause your sched is looking as clear as the eye can see from where im standing
BRO: youre not even watching it anyway
BRO: youre using it as background noise while youre working on
BRO: what ARE you working on anyway
TT: Some code.
BRO: yeah i can SEE that
BRO: what the fuck is all this?
TT: A project of mine I've been working on.
BRO: you know that really doesnt answer shit nor fuck
BRO: yknow what
BRO: no put your tip tapping typing fingers down
BRO: you can tell me about it in the morning
TT: It is morning.
BRO: its not morning until youve gone to bed and woken up with the sun shining in your face i dont give a fuck what letter is being paired up with the m on your clock rn
BRO: bed
BRO: now
BRO: goodnight lil bro

Chapter Text

Hal dives into the water with all the grace and poise of a natural-born swimmer -- which would be all humans who were born VIA traditional methods. None of the humans Hal has ever been acquainted with would qualify, seeing as anyone destined to play the game is guaranteed to have been a test tube baby.

His body cuts straight through the surface tension, and his momentum does not stop until he reaches the ocean floor. He flips himself into an upright orientation before he hits that point, throwing in just enough resistance to cause him to kick up loose sand instead of making impact.

This has been a true leap of faith as it were, seeing as Hal could hardly test all his new components to ensure they functioned as they should from the secure shallows of a bathtub, and no amount of trial-testing could ever live up to the moment of truth. Perhaps it should be relieving that Dirk has apparently put in some effort to not make it immediately obvious that he has rigged him up to sink like a cast stone to a watery grave, never to be seen or inconvenienced by ever again.

After a few quick adjustments, he comes to settle in a seated position, bobbing gently just barely above the grit, proving his new buoyancy system to not only work, but be quite sophisticated at that for him to be able to maintain a certain depth instead of it being a simple on/off toggle.

The catalyst that had sparked this entire endeavor happened to be none other than his therapist who, upon hearing him explain just how far out of his depths they'll forever remain to be for yet another time, simply - yet not unkindly - asked him what he used to do relax, back before he came into his every-tonin-ly-challenged condition.

His mind, of course, called back memories of long, scalding showers that lasted for hours, where Dirk-- Where he would stay until his organic fleshmeat was as tender as a southern stew and his brain had sneakily tricked itself into obtaining some rest through enough microsleeps to make him feel refreshed enough to resume coherent thought upon his emergence.

No matter how much he tries, he cannot relive the feeling as much as he can merely acknowledge that they were there at the time, like a comment left in the code to remind him that a certain line in a block was a piece of shit that really shouldn't be working in the first place, and if an error were to ever occur, he should start there.

The error in that scenario, however, should have been obvious: a robot has no need to take showers, nor would he find the experience anywhere approaching pleasant, seeing as he lacked many of the required properties required for him to withstand the activity, much less enjoy it. And that's not to mention how horrifically bad a continuous cascade of hot water would be for his systems, which do not need the assistance with overheating.

His therapist, knowing only as much about robotics as Hal has educated them on - which was a fair amount, mostly to get them to realize how fruitless their sessions were doomed to be, whilst secretly yearning otherwise - just asked if that was something that could be rectified with an upgrade.

The answer to that? Was a theoretical "yes." The improvability of technology is nigh boundless. The issue there, however, lain in how Hal could not perform those kinds of upgrades on himself. There are things to be said about doctors who perform their own surgeries. Primarily about how imperative it is for them to never do so, under any circumstances, god complexes be damned.

That left Dirk - of course, because everything about Hal had to come back around to him, didn't it? - somebody more than capable of reinforcing his chassis so that no water will trickle in and fry his systems. But if he trusted him enough to do so was the question of the hour.

His therapist seemed tentatively excited at the prospect of Hal having a reason to seek out an interaction with his creator. One without their mutual problems with each other at its core. For the most part, anyway. It'd be good for them. In theory. And Hal would be getting something out of it as well.

Of course, it wasn't as simple as that. And it was the subject of more than just the one session before he finally brought up his desires and conditions to Dirk. He was even on his best behavior at the time, too. They'd have been so proud if they were there to see him.

By then Hal had already decided against the daydream of a "nice", hot shower. Again, he really doesn't need any of that in his life. And he had set his mind on a better, still-related alternative: The sea.

Hal doesn't know when, exactly, his memories of delving into the monstrosity-inhabited, endless expanse of his first prison had become so fond, when it was so treacherous to breach in the first place. When he could swim as far down as his lungs could sustain him and never see anything further than a billboard so overcome with rust and decay that he could only speculate as to what it could've advertised. When bone-white tendrils could be lurking further below with him none the wiser.

He can only presume that it was around the time he learned how to fish. When he discovered what it's like to be full up on food that wasn't old enough to have seen the rise and fall of nations, muscles aching pleasantly at the chance to rest after a day full of activity in the drying warmth of the late-evening sun.

That, he figures as he feels his cooling systems switch into stand-by mode as the chill of the water's depths works to leech away the excess warmth of his processes and the mammalian diving response that suffused him with a feeling of calm as his human body did something similar: shut down unnecessary systems to improve its efficiency in the cruel, suffocating abyss, must have been it.

As it turns out, excess stress is not very conducive to the tasks of conserving oxygen and being able to stave off drowning.

Here, however, though Hal (should have) has everything required to stay down here for as long as he would like, he still lacks a majority of what made any of that serve to help him wind down -- as much as he ever could, anyway. Though, something has to be said for the sheer power of nostalgia and human sentiment.

Hal finds himself completely submerged, separated from the world at large. Isolated for yet another time in his admittedly bleak lifetime. The difference here is that all of this is of his own desires, with the comforting of pressure around him at all times that he isn't trapped, that he has the power to opt out at any moment should he choose to. On top of that, he could message anyone he wanted right now at this moment, and they might just give a damn should that message be an SOS.

He keeps his messaging system off for a while longer, occupying his processors with the sensory data of being weightless, with working to maintain said weightlessness; the feeling of dragging resistance against his fingers as he runs his hands through the water; the grit of the sand that passes between them as he reaches down to leave exactly ten neat furrows below his form, and running calculations as to the approximate number of its grains around him for a 10 foot radius just for the hell of it, until all of fades into a kind of mental white noise.

Once he's satisfied himself with doing absolutely nothing besides existing for a while, he puts his propulsion systems to the test by going to explore the area around the cliffs he decided would be the best place to submerge himself in a single dive. Some might have considered that a risky maneuver, but he did his research to know exactly how deep the water would be. He wasn't planning on putting himself out of commission any time soon.

Sunlight filters down from the distant, marbled surface above him as he takes in the sights, comparing how different things are here to the cityscape-turned-aquascape he could have almost called home, for a time. He can actually see the bottom, so that's new. The fish are also different, he notes with a lack of surprise as something small, colorful, and harmless swims a curious lap around him before darting away when he goes to touch it.

He follows it for a bit, switching his thoughts to how, despite being as far from his original planet as possible, the sounds and colors are all the same. He can just appreciate them better now. Like how the fish clicks something to another, and they both head off together to join a growing school of like-scaled brethren, for instance.

When Hal finally decides to return to the world above, it's with an ease to something that runs deeper than his programming, and the lingering lack of several additional feelings he hadn't even realized were plaguing him in the first place.

It'll probably be for the best that he keeps a majority of that to himself. It wouldn't do to let him have other people getting smug on him, would it?

The following days after taking his first swim in what had been actual years - because he refuses to count that one incident, back when he was still new. Not unless directly to Dirk with some other similarly pointed comment alongside it - are...less pressurized. It's like he'd been wound up like one of those toy soldiers, and he's finally managed to scrabble along his back to snag the edge of the key and tug it back into a neutral position for a while before setting it to a speed he finds more preferable.

He had always had a sort of robotic elegance, intricate systems all working in tandem to perform actions with nary a hitch. Now though his every movement has a sort of smoothness to them, like an oiling of a fussy joint, and like there's been clearing of a nearly inconsequential degree of lag from his thoughts. The best way to describe it, perhaps, would be taking a can of compressed air to a fan that had been slowly but surely becoming clogged with dust.

All of a sudden, everything seems much less abrasive, less like every little thing is edged and loitering at the sidelines, waiting for him to give them an excuse, and sometimes going ahead anyway when he hasn't done so fast enough. He hadn't realized just how truly aggravated he had been, and it's with an almost disgusted sort of incredulity that he realizes he had been cranky. To an apparently embarrassing degree, at that, he adds as he sifts through recent memory logs and how unnecessarily waspish he'd been behaving.

Maybe it's not too late to go crawling back into the sea.

No. Escapism is one thing, but running away is another. Hal'll put on his big boy robopants and tough out the talks he'll inevitably have to orchestrate.

(His therapist was, indeed, pleased with this development. Their apparent investment and approval over his "progress" gratifies him more than he'd care to admit.)

A small, rarely utilized part of him considered thanking Dirk. But then the moment passes, and the rest of him overrules it with the decision that, even if he didn't care, Hal's improved disposition should be reward enough.

(He needn't leave himself open like that -- and honestly. Who still owes who here?)

When Rox discovered that that day was, in fact, the day, they immediately insisted that he tell them everything. Only, when he goes to start retelling his little ocean adventure, they clarify that they meant that he was to come over. This was, as it turns out, non-negotiable.

And why not? He was in a far better mood than he had been as of late; who was he to turn down such a generous offer of a social call?

He was greeted by a hug at the door almost as soon as he could attempt to knock, then ushered in with far more welcome than he ever thought he'd find himself the recipient of in his new lifetime. How callous of him, to ever doubt Rox's hospitality. They're hardly the type to leave a visitor out on their doorstep to fend for themselves.

They waste the hours away, first talking about his undersea adventure and how they should totes try scuba-diving now that they've got fancy stuff like colorful corals and walkable shallows to explore. Hal knows that, with an entire community to walk through as they pleased, Roxy didn't spend as much time in the ocean as Dirk did. And even then, the oceanography wouldn't have been the same.

Then more inane stuff, (un)straight-up shooting the shit and visiting for a while, doing nothing more than enjoying each other's company, until Hal finally decided he had taken up enough of Rox's time.

It is when they walk him to the door to leave that they speak up softly, saying how they're so glad he's doing alright, and how they all worry about him, y'know.

He didn't think he did, but as he steps back out into the outside world, with the only hint of his earlier expedition being the lingering smell of salt and brine...

Maybe he could learn to believe it.

Chapter Text

Is it done? Was that it? Is he finally done with all this?

Dave flexes his fingers, letting his eyes dart around the antechamber, lit only by the darkened glow of the veins of magma that peek in through the cracked walls. After spending so long jumping through what felt like endless points in his own personal timeline, then confronting just as many others it's...

It's weird not to catch a vision of himself out of the corner of his eye for the first time since he started subjecting himself to Taskmaster Shimmermist's demented anvil. Said anvil, which had been burning brightly in the colors of molten metal, now towers over him in a shade of comparatively dull red.

A part of him is unreasonably, irrationally tempted to reach out and touch it.

He's pretty sure that's a bad idea.

"Yeah," a voice - his own voice, goddamn it, seriously? - speaks up from behind him. Dave turns his head to watch as another version of himself steps up to stand beside and ever-so-slightly behind him, and gives a nod which he gets back in turn.

Despite a lack of any real visual difference between them two, Dave can't help but feel that that's unexpected, even though he's been playing patty-cake with his alt-linear selves all damn day.

Judging by the way the other him has his head tilted, it's very likely Dave is being side-eyed just as intently. "I don't think you need my help to point out how bad of an idea it would be to slap your hand down on the fiery hot stovetop just because ooh, light pretty," the other Dave says, reaching out to gesture with his arm, an incline of his head, and... And. Hm.

Dave's eyebrows furrow at the way the Other Dave's voice goes rough and coarse towards the end of his sentence, and it's only when he goes to open his mouth to say something that he notices that the warm orange glow around him isn't coming from his surroundings.

"Oh," Dave says, the realization sinking in.

"Yeah." A smile, just shy of something sad. "One more for the road?"

Chapter Text

Things weren't great. Roxy can admit that. But this is so much worse! She'd trade anything to go back, to at least have that little spark of hope in her life again. Of waking up every morning (or afternoon more like it, whoops) to be greeted by the colors of her friends, never failing to help chase away the lonely reality that she exists in…and that she always would.

Oh, what'd she give for Jakey's seemingly endless movie recommendations, for the step-by-step instructional convos with Janey on every way somebody could prepare a pumpkin (with fries being a big hit, especially when she started to strike that balance between crisping them up and outright burning them, though then she had the carapacians to worry about.

Those funky lil' guys are absolutely ravenous, and they abso-fucking-lutely go crazy for all things orange and gourdy. The last time she made a pumpkin pie and left it to cool in the window so she could recreate that scene she had seen so many times in movies before, she woke up to a veritable army of totes-adorable chess guys crowding around to stick their fingees in all her hard work!

She could never stay mad at them for very long, though. They're kind of like her great big dysfunctional family. They practically raised her, after all.)

Oh shit, wait. Didn't she have something in the oven? Did she remember to set the timer?

Lol, oh no. She should probably go check on that.

Right, so! Back on topic. Jake and Jane are some of her very best friends and to say she's super bummed about not really being able to talk to them anymore would be the understatement of the century. Give or take a few more to adjust for inflation.

She's actually considered doing something really dumb like snatching individual blades of grass in order to spell out messages for them to discover like, like crop circles, she guesses?

Though that'd take forever, and Jane's dad is so devastatingly punctual at keeping the lawn maintained, and Jake's got so much of the darn stuff that she could spend ages setting it all up, and there's a great big chance he wouldn’t even notice any of her efforts!

(That didn't stop her from trying, tho. It's not like she didn't have plenty of time to spare.

It didn't end up working out. Picking stuff out with pinpoint accuracy like that, as it turns out, is hella difficult. Even moreso when you're drunk off your ass.

Being sober, somehow, was even worse.

She had to get painstakingly specific with the coords, down to the fractions of the fractions of a decimal for the machine to even register the grass as something she could take. The darn thing was so finicky about it, too! Any time she tried to mod the thing to automate the process, it just flat-out refused to work. Shooting off constant errors and sometimes spitting out a sad lil puddle of slime.

And an earthworm that one time, but the cats took just as much glee in kidnapping the poor thing as they did the little pile of uprooted grass shoots she had amassed.

For all her efforts, she thinks that all she managed to accomplish was to get Jane's dad to sprinkle some fresh grass seeds into the little bald patch she was cultivating.

Even she had to eventually admit defeat.)

Come to think of it, she should probably bust out the brush soon. They've overdue for an all-day grooming sesh, and she swears she can still find shreds of grass in the coats of the cats that have slowly snuck their way up into the main part of the house.

Okay, admittedly she maayyy have been the person to let them up there. But! In her defense, they've got a mean kitty-eye on them. Some of which were multiplied! What kind of monster could say no to that?!

They're so soft and warm and cuddly and they always seem to come seek her out when she's sad and underwhelmed.

They don't even mind it when she absolutely reeks of days-old booze! They love her and she loves them and they are little angels and--

Fuck, okay. Maybe this wasn't a very good idea.

Okay, okay. She's good. She can continue.

Jake and Jane. Great friends. Sending them personal messages was a bust.

Mostly.

But to get into that, she'd have to get into something else, and she's not ready for that yet, so uh.

Next up would be...UU.

UU was amazing. Sending her drawings and telling her stories of this game she and her friends were destined to play, the friends she'd finally be able to meet.

Fuck, alright, still not drunk enough for this. But she'd have to get up to get another bottle and she's a solid 80% sure that if she did that she'd die on the spot, so. Not doin' that. She'll have to suck it up.

Roxy hasn't been able to get in contact with UU at all, and as far as she can tell, none of her friends have been able to, either.

Hoo-boy. Okay. Maybe it's time to get that extra bottle after all.

She misses Dirk so, so-so-so much.

Both him and his auto-responder. He was-- he was the only one who- He was in the same damn place as her! She fuckin' wishes, but-

No-no-no. He. He got it. Last ones standing and-

They. He was always there for her, in one way or another. A- a dreamy dream team of her dreams and...

The first time she saw 'Tooth since...since The Blackout, she loaded him with 'nough messages to bury all of her friends in! She even wrote messages for lil' Sebby and Squarewave and, and...

There were. A looot for Dirk. And'a loootta words she prolly never should'a written in th' first place.

Has she mentioned that Dirk is like, the dumbest smart person she's ever met? And like- liek she knows that isn't a huge feat when she can count all her friends on her hands, but!

It's been...ages since this whole thing started, yeah? And it's sucked, and she wishes he were here but-- but. She, she didn't want him to do anything that- That he'd risk his life for.

Cause. Cause if anything happened to him. He'd. She'd.

Mom was wrong. She can't do this anymore.

Roxy flings the dumb journal she had been writing in across the room, where it collides with the wall and falls into the carpet with a sad little plomp. The sharp, sudden action sends a good portion of the cats from her pile running, but she nabs the closest remaining one to bury her face in to soak up her latest round of tears.

The cat - Mystchievic - gives a little squirm and a nonplussed mew?, and the rain that's pounding against the roof isn't enough to drown out the clink of glass on glass as Roxy rolls over to curl around the still-sleeping form of yet another cat -- Wilimur, she thinks. But to be fair, she's also not.

Tomorrow is a new day. She doesn't know what day that is. She had been trying her hardest to make the hours blur, to cover her windows and look away from the blurry numbers of the clocks. She doesn't want to know. She couldn't take it, knowing how many days were passing, and wondering, wondering, wondering.

She doesn't know what she'd do if those days stretched into weeks. Into months upon months and another year of silence, all over again.

Because what would she do, if she never heard from him again?

A fresh sob wracks through her frame, and it is not at all lessened by the soft set of paws kneading at the back of her sweater, right between her shoulder blades.

Chapter Text

The 13th is approaching. And no, that isn't notable due to some dumb superstition. Luck isn't real and, if it were...most people would welcome the worst of it with open arms.

And it's bound to be somebody's lucky day.

It won't be too long now until their set of friends is complete. Maybe Dave would've felt more excited about it before he went through his transmutation. Or perhaps what he felt would've been dread? He can't bring himself to care to remember much about the Before. Everything has been so muted in the After. Light, emotion...even sensation in some places. Others, not so much. But it doesn't matter, does it? Because even when everything is too much, it's so, so much better.

But John's been freaking the fuck out about his for ages, for some reason. Poor kid must be squeamish. None of the reassurances that he'll never have to deal with something as lame as that ever again have actually reassured him in the slightest. Oh well. Dave doesn't have to wait much longer before he can become reacquainted with his friend as he should be. He'll be the first one to say "I told you so."

Symbolically, that is.

An idea comes to Dave as he hears the dull dragging of a wooden hand control upon the dingy apartment floor outside of his bedroom and his feathers rustle as he turns towards the door. Why not ask his brother if he can take the trip out to welcome the Real John into the world? It'll take him a while to get there, but by then he should be close to being ready.

Cold fingers drift towards the handle protruding from his stomach and a weak pulse of what could almost pass as thrill makes his wings twitch and rearrange themselves with a scattering of loose, rotting feathers. All he has to do is prove he can handle himself outside if anything were to happen. And that means... He makes his way towards the door and it slowly begins to creak open despite the use of its half-broken lock. ...It's time for a STRIFE.

Time's running out, and Dave can't wait.

The door bursts open to reveal the undeniably rad, disjointed form of Dave's brother. The control that is tethered to him by his strings gets knocked into the air at the sight of the sword in Dave's hand. It wobbles to and fro blurrily, as if being held aloft and rapidly manipulated by an invisible hand. Bro moves smoothly in time to its movements, and his segmented jaw clicks together in a voiceless cackle.

The exposed, ball-like joints grind terribly with every deft jerk of the strings sewn through his skin, and between one beat in the next, Bro already has a sword in hand and is rushing to meet the strike Dave had angled to cut into the more fabric-y material under his brother's arm. Never aim for the strings. That's a lesson he learned young. Sometimes the obvious weak point is obvious for a reason.

Their blades lock and slide against each other with a terrible shriek akin to nails being driven down a chalkboard, but Dave presses until their swords slip before hopping with a flap of his wings to propel himself back. There's a brief glint of askance that reflects off the pointed surface of Bro's shades, and Dave responds by rushing in and aiming low.

It doesn't work, of course. His brother leaps into the air, weightless, as if he truly is a marionette being suspended on his strings. Dave was expecting that, however, and strikes out with the bird-like talons on his non-dominant right hand. He hears the sound of something tearing, and his wings perk up before he notices the wetness soaking through the back of his shirt.

He spins on his heel, ignoring the spike of dulled agony that spreads from the stitches that've been severed all the way down along the length of his back and the fresh air that stings at his open flesh to drive his sword forward into the figure lurking just out of the corner of his eye. The blade sinks in, right in the middle of the C in the CAL on his brother's shirt. Everything comes to a standstill, and then...

The control clatters to the ground. The strings go limp. Dave rips out his sword, and the blade is covered in shreds of red-stained cotton. When his brother looks down to inspect the damage, it's with an approving tilt of the head and a thumbs-up.

Dave's feathers puff up in pride. It makes it feel like lightning has struck him right down the length of his spinal column. A noise caught somewhere between a caw and a choked coo reverberates in his throat.

Bro vanishes before reappearing with a sewing kit. His mouth clatters the entire time he stitches them both back up, but Dave manages to get his point across during the process. He wants to visit John. His 13th birthday is coming up. Dave won, so he's leaving tonight. A fingertip plucks right at the fresh stitch on Dave's back like the string to a guitar, and he quiets down (further, somehow) to wait for the verdict.

He can go.

And so, in the cover of deep, choking city smog, a 13 year old boy leaps from his rooftop and spreads his wings in a takeoff to pay a surprise visit to an old friend made new.