Chapter Text
You hate this. You really do hate this. There's a weird deafening silence surrounding your entire apartment and you don't think twice about it, because to you it's normal and then you tell yourself that being silent is at least better than entering a room with a blade of a sword underneath your chin, a mute offering of a strife. It's better being silent because the world isn't after you, it's not harsh and everything is perfect. You tell yourself you're not scared, it's silly talk. Why are you scared? You shouldn't be scared. That's not the Strider Protocol. Or whatever it is.
Everything is a war zone if you leave this room. Which is why your room is the safest place, however, sometimes it's not. Again, silly talk! Look at you saying you feel safer in your own room, God, you sound pathetic.
Maybe it's the fact you have silly friends in a screen of colours indicating who you are talking to. It's the fact they're the only people you feel as if you have a genuine connection with, sure there are times you tell them you chit-chat with others, you tell them right off the bat you have an entire list of friends in real life. It makes you feel cooler than you actually are. Or maybe they know you're bluffing.
Ugh. You're thinking again. That gets you killed. Get out of your head.
You smack your face, then allowed the ball of your palm smash repeatedly against your forehead. Maybe if you hit it hard enough it will train itself to be a better version of brain. It hurts, sure, but you got hit with worse things. Like shurikens, kunai, hell even fireworks if you're not careful; you guess the real winner here is the godforsaken sword that stares at you forever in your room. You don't want to touch that thing, but then again, you think it's completely badass and cool to know you wield such a weapon.
You shouldn't feel glad, but at least it helps numb the pain your entire face is feeling after a good few smacks to reboot your brain back into its natural habitat. No longer overthinking stupid bullshit that you know is just silly nerves. Haha. Go to tell nerves.
Then you hear a sound, immediately your body went rigid, tense shoulders and you let your ears listen so intently towards your door for any footsteps, that you completely forgot how to breathe. Then another. And another. Until you realised it was coming from your own computer in front of you. Wow. You relax—admittedly to you, you are not relaxed, but lying to yourself is your best friend—and finally learned how to use your lungs, breathing enough air to make you sound like you took a mile run. You felt like you did.
Over what? A single notification sound? Okay, maybe more than a single notification, but still—get a grip.
Your hand warily went to the mouse, clicking to see who is messaging and you lo and behold, it's Rose. You wonder what she is plotting. Maybe she can offer you some stupid bullshit that will eat you alive for weeks, or maybe it's not that. Maybe you are just... You smacked yourself again. Shut up.
You are well aware that this doesn't do much, but it helps something, you think.
You know damn well it's not the Strider Way of doing things, or maybe it is; maybe training yourself with immense whacking to the face really amps up the training of your mind. You should applaud yourself of your wide knowledge of the Strider Training you endure over the years. Really paying off. Good for you.
Now, what the hell does Rose want.
-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] --
TT: Hello, I do hope I'm not interrupting anything that would otherwise stunt our conversation.
TT: Okay, maybe it hasn't, considering the fact that it only just started a few seconds and now minutes as I'm typing this.
TT: Sorry for my clueless demeanor, I took a nap.
TT: However, do you, perchance, want to listen to me talk about this new literature of wizards?
TT: Seeing as, if I remember correctly, I unfortunately sent you the wizard erotica when I wanted to send you a birthday present.
TG: oh yeah
TG: haha that was pure fucking gold territory
TG: although i think you should tone it down with the immense of words written on the pages
TG: even though thats like your shtick and you absolutely are adoring the hugest vocabulary ive ever seen
TG: which btw good on you for making me look up a shit ton of words i never heard before in my life until you threw the porno at me
TT: It is not, and I quote a "porno."
TG: you blatantly told me it was and i quote "wizard erotica"
TT: Oh.
TG: burn
TT: I suppose the one I mistakenly sent you was exactly like that, my mistake.
TG: ive learned things from that book i didnt even know of
TT: Yet, the amount of phallic and Smuppet rump over the years is different?
TG: because those are cool and ironically funny
TG: this was written by your own hands and lemme tell you
TG: reading this shit with the mind of rose lalonde writing this was eye opening and id love to hear more about what would happen next
TT: Actually, of a matter fact, I don't think I want to indulge you any further with what I written.
TT: It is already embarrassing enough as it is to think I sent you that one.
TG: i never openly admitted to jade or john or like anyone on the planet
TG: theyre hidden deep in my closet in a box that not even bro could figure out how to open
TG: so your secret literature life is safe with me
TG: honestly rose i think you should jump into being an author
TT: I rather not. Considering the fact you told me, indirectly, to be more concise.
TG: i mentioned to not use your stupendous vocabulary that will make readers have to look up every little word
TG: like cut down the amount of words you use or something
TT: Like how your comic is incredibly concise with its own grammatical errors?
TG: sbahj is a masterpiece and its flaws are the epitome of its popularity
TT: It is quite unusual.
TG: to you
TT: Ah, yes, of course. I do enjoy the frequent updates, however. I'm glad you found something worth putting time into.
TG: now where the hell did you pull that out of your ass
TG: but thanks
TG: not sure why you care so much about it
TT: It is your work of art, even with its questionable portrayals of repressed sexuality and other oddballs of self-destructive tendencies.
TG: ok so the idea of sbahj doesnt hold any hidden purpose of my own being
TG: nor does it hold any attributes to a repressed sexuality that i dont have and you know it
TG: its literally just some stupid comic to poke fun at and let the creativity juices flow right out of my fingertips
TG: like im fucking bill ross and smashing the shit out of this here paintbrush to paint in the realistic tree youll ever laid your eyes on
TT: I would enjoy seeing you follow a Bob Ross video.
TT: Actually, would you do me the honour to record yourself doing a Bob Ross video, via on the program you use for Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff?
TT: I think it would make my entire year.
TG: stfu
TG: youre not getting that
TT: A shame, I was hoping for it.
TG: are you going to share me the new literature youre writing or are we going to deep dive into artist quarrel or what
TT: I already said no I wouldn't.
TT: I am, however, now wondering why you offered me such a response to that.
TG: ugh not important
TG: fine ill record the bob ross video to send it to you
TG: thats all youre getting
TT: Wonderful.
TT: Although, Dave, has everything been alright?
TG: yeah
TG: why wouldnt i be alright? why wouldnt things be alright?
TT: You mentioned to me, briefly before, that you are alone for a while. Unsure whether or not, if you're holding up.
TT: You don't need to answer, I was simply offering my own worry towards you.
TT: You are not alone, you know that, right, Dave?
TG: for sure
TG: i got you
TG: jade and john
TG: i know im not alone
TG: not sure why youre throwing worry at me like its vital for my psyche
TT: Your psyche is worrisome, Dave.
TT: I know you don't enjoy my consistent prodding and clawing my way into your mind to unravel its own mysterious, but from the times we do talk and the times you unknowingly talk about your life; I'm worried for you.
TG: dont be lalonde
TG: seriously
TG: as much as you are not being a complete clingy bitch about this i really dont need your help
TG: im cool im fine
TG: seriously why are you saying this as if something bad is about to happen
TT: It's a feeling. I won't mention it to you, but promise me, you'd be safe?
TG: youre acting like im about to fucking die
TG: which sounds hysterical because im not scared of death i can handle that motherfucker with my eyes closed
TG: you forgot i have a goddamn sword
TT: Yes, I know.
TG: see? no worry here
TG: lalonde if it makes you feel better if shit does hit the fan
TG: which i highly doubt
TG: ill tell you
TG: but seeing as nothing right now is about to fuckin happen im golden
TT: Independence is your greatest flaw, Dave.
TG: literature is your biggest weakness lalonde
TT: But you do promise me you'll tell me?
TG: if it ends up in the book of my entire life story then sure
TT: Alright. I'll write up your entire life story as concise and easy to read as possible.
TG: awesome cant wait
-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]--
You don't tell Rose this, but you are grateful she cares about you because you don't think you care enough about yourself to even wish for the goodness of the world. Or, the goodness in the world for you. Maybe everyone else has it, but you doubt it. Again, you smack your forehead with the ball of your palm and winced hard enough, you feel your eyes water. Shit. This is so pointless to let your eyes water over. Ugh.
You exit out of Pesterchun completely this time, but a part of you has a sinking feeling that you'd regret it later.
Whatever. Future you can handle that, current you is in no time to dilly-dally over something so mediocre.
You get up from your chair and decide, as careful and quietly as possible to exit your room. You crack open the door and let your head peek through, turning your head to the left; clear; turning your head to the right; clear. It's clear enough, apart from the puppets and weaponry of traps lying around, but it's the norm to you—so, clear means clear, maybe in the sense of close on getting yourself hurt, but clear without seeing anyone around.
You don't know what you'll do if Bro was home and you are already mildly panicking at the mere fact that he could be here. You don't get why. Bro is always cool and mysterious, a real pro at the sword; the ideal definition of a swordsman, you think. There were a few moments of your life where you practice in your room, hitting at completely nothing or a makeshift dummy of clothes you don't wear anymore, just to see if you can grow better. You've gotten better at dodges. But you are still weak in many fields of sword fighting anyway.
So, it's good Bro's teaching you. You don't know where you'd be if he didn't. Probably in a ditch somewhere, rotting your life away. Whatever the case may be, you are glad you're here.
You found yourself at the bottom of the staircase, you didn't hear a single creak and you are pretty sure you walked up and down these stairs enough times to know which part of the stair creaks and which doesn't; it comes in handy. At some points. You let your silence consume you more and you let your observing skills to the test once again. You crept slowly into the living room, eyes peeling around to see a figure or even the hideous and terrifying puppet; nothing. You crept slower, offering yourself a mute deep breath, to the kitchen.
Traps scattered around, you kept your eyes open to make sure you didn't set off any tripwire. The refrigerator, your greatest enemy, and a wish that never gets heard of it being used how it's supposed to be used. Sure, you've stopped asking for it be used as its actual purpose, considering the fact it never ends well, but that doesn't mean you don't stop and hope, and wish upon a star for it to be used for its actual sole purpose. Then again, Bro thinks food is an obstacle of choice and you have to hunt to survive—or buy to survive—than let it waste away in a storage unit built for that exact purpose.
You thread your socked feet carefully into the kitchen, you let your eyes look below you and all around, keeping a keen eye at the hidden tripwire. Those sons of bitches are hidden in plain sight. You’re lucky enough that you are able to see them with the naked eye, but sometimes, Bro hides them cleverly, that you trigger them.
You walk in such a way that seems like you are playing a heist by yourself, maneuvering yourself as if you are trying to avoid the deadly lasers. But you managed. You made it to the cabinets. Bro never messes with these. He never would do that to you.
Right?
Nah, overthinking a situation that makes your brain tinker on longer than normal would let it explode. Not right now.
You tell your brain to shut the fuck up and you carefully attempt to open the cabinet. You start. You hear a sound. A loud sound. Your eyes staring intently at the cabinet, you feel it was tampered with. You are also incredibly hungry, now that you think about it.
Bro’s not here.
You’ve been alone. The entire time.
But it feels like someone is with you. Or something. Or maybe you are terrified out of your wits. Maybe you are being completely cowardly. A part of you, though, doesn’t open the cabinet any more. You leave it open slightly and let go of the knob.
You walk, slow and carefully, backwards.
Then, by some stupid karma you are engraved with, the omen that surrounds you—you blame, partially, the crows you see but they’re just birds, they don’t know shit—you stepped on a tripwire, and the cabinet opens wide.
A few shurikens fly towards you. You dodge them hastily.
Although, again, since the omen effect never wears off once it starts, you hit another tripwire.
Flashes of kunai fly toward you, dodging these are way difficult than the tiny ninja stars. You manage though, barely, feeling your skin burn from the fact some sliced into you. It’s normal you think.
So, utterly normal.
And because hunger is an unsatisfied beast, your eyes look up at the cabinet hungrily to see if there is anything worth taking from the now partially destroyed cabinet. A box of Froot Loops. You’d be more happy if you had milk with you to actually make into actual cereal—but then you realised you are ungrateful for even thinking that—and hurriedly, this time, without an ounce of attentive eyes, you grab the box of Froot Loops.
You never guessed what would happened next.
Oh, yes.
Froot Loops were also tampered with.
The box explodes when you were excitedly about to chow down on delicious sweet goodness. The bag explodes and you hear them all land on the kitchen floor. A part of you wants to cry, you never thought you’d see the day of you crying like a little baby about wasted food, but here you are, thinking it.
Externally, however, your body stings from the hits of cereal and the hits of cardboard breaking apart, your hands sting, your arms sting from the kunai that flung at you; you stare, defeated, almost, at the mess on the floor.
You know you have to clean that up.
You know you also have to be taught a lesson over not letting your hunger get to you or something. Maybe, since he’s not here, you can make a run for it; live in the safety of you room once again.
Sure, yeah, alright, maybe you should eat the rainbow coloured cereal off the floor like a goddamn dog, but you rather not.
You clung to the broken pieces of cardboard that was still in your grasp. You clung to it tightly, a blank stare falls at nothing. You hate yourself. You hate that you ventured out of your room to grab something to eat; sure, the silence was uncalled for, but at least it wasn’t this horrific where it hurts.
Maybe you are foolish.
You don’t dwell on the matter and after a long while, of who knows how long, you walked out of the kitchen and ignored the crunch after crunch after stepping on a Froot Loop.
The world is cruel to you; you don’t wish upon stars to ask for a good life, because you can handle it.
You can handle it.
You are alive.
That should be good, right?
Being alive?