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Published:
2024-02-15
Updated:
2024-02-22
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3/?
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Kinger gets trapped in a white void and starts hearing voices in his head (meaning you cretins.) how absolutely RIVETING.

Summary:

Kinger got yeeted into The Void, for a “mandatory Q&A” as Caine calls it. Hes been sitting there for about an hour before anything happens — that being, a voice piping up in his head.
That voice is…well, I mean, you, if you click on this.
NOT A Y/N, I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH, ITS BASICALLY JUST— AN ASKBLOG?? I GUESS?
Just. Submit questions in comments. I have so much lore for Kinger it’s absolutely unreal so: kinger homies, come get’cha food. Yes…Yes I’m willing to talk about Queenie. (<— so willing to talk about Queenie.)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Hello! These are the rules. You, you that are reading this, are an Observer. Observers Can:

 

  • Yeet Objects/Critters into The Void for Kinger to see/Interact with, (Critters = living creature smaller than Kinger, bugs if you want him to be happy ig?)
  • Speak to Kinger/Other Observers/the narrator, (address them by name. Please. I ain’t psychic kids)
  • Change the environment of The Void, (to an extent!)
  • Summon 1+ Character at a time to join Kinger in The Void.

 

Observers Cannot:

 

  • Remove Kinger from The Void,
  • Kill Kinger…directly,
  • Summon themselves into The Void. (if. IF I am feeling generous I might set up a competition to get one of your OC’s in there, but I do got taxes to pay.)

 

There are no restrictions to chat quality nor contents. Though the general rule is, the more unsavory the comment, the less chance you will have to be selected.

 

No, you can’t seduce him. He’s 48 for one, and married for another. Once-happily married, in this lore.

 

Feel free to be as Meta as you want. I enjoy the challenge. You can summon abstractions as well as characters, but you must refer to them by a name which I can actually identify one of them with. If you say something like “Rover” i can just make them feral and insane, but if you want a specific guy? A guy who can talk n’ stuff? Gotta describe em’ to me, man. For example, if you want Kaufmo? Say Kaufmo. If you want the orange dog? Say orange dog. If you want the worm off the string? Say worm off the string. You want an insane kangaroo who might be a war criminal? Say insane kangaroo who might be a war criminal.

 

Any comments specifically addressed to me, put them in {these} brackets.

 

Also, important note: I have another multi chapter (and by that I mean nearly 30k) fic, Local Artist, which is heavily kinger-centric. I’m going to be using that version of him — as in, the characterization I have for him there — for this. So, uh, if you like this? Then go read that. It has Queenie in it! And Kaufmo. I think I’m the first person to actually write Kaufmo. (Screw you gooseworx im oc-ifying your filler character and YOU CANT STOP ME.)

 

…I cannot believe I’m doing this. God give me strength, I better not get any kinksters in my comments.

Chapter 2: …he’s. Sitting there. How interesting.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Kinger is just. Sort of sitting there.

 

Not much to comment on here, really. He’s just staring off into the void — man, who knows what’s going on in that little head of his. His eyes are glassed over and distant, clearly somewhere else entirely. He picks at a loose thread on the thick velvet of his cloak, the fur ruff slightly missed up from his ungainly landing. I’d tell you what he’s thinking about, but I can’t transcribe…whatever the hell kind of elevator music is going on back there. He’s practically asleep sitting up, just gazing off into the distant swirling shapes of the void. Caine had literally chucked him here, much like an oversized cat getting thrown outside after knocking over aunt Margaret’s favorite vase, even though nobody actually likes aunt Margret.

 

He’s…Just sitting there.

 

…

 

Look, he’s literally , no jokes about it, deadass just sitting there. I know you want an ‘introduction’ of some sort, to prove I have a writing style worth your attention, but…I’ve got limits, man. There’s only so much an omnipresent narrator can do when the protagonist is just bloody sitting there. The cretin.

 

Look — you want things to spice up? Talk to the guy! Get off your ass! That’s what you’re here for, anyhow!

 


in the meantime, I am going to go drink Red Bull until somebody actually starts off the story.

 

Notes:

Well? Go on! Poke him or something.

Chapter 3: Oh look, it’s a. Bird thing. And another bird thing. And a lemon. And a —

Summary:

*gestures vaguely to the entire comment section* you people…….baffle me…….

Notes:

You people seem to like this apparently.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Why am I suddenly getting an overwhelming sense of imposing doom?

Kinger wonders lightly, staring off into the shifting gray-and-white cubes that make up the void, completely unaware of the pure chaos that is about to decend upon him. He’s been sitting here for what feels like hours — he was just beginning to get disturbed by the lack of anythingness, when suddenly, a little chime played. 

Without warning, a banner appeared floating in the void high above him, with a large dose of confetti. Q&A HAS BEGUN! The colorful text reads, the shower of colorful paper dusting itself over kinger. 

Kinger sits there a solid seven seconds before his brain catches up with him, and he jumps out of his nonexistent skin.

 

“ GAH! ”

 

Kinger scrambles backwards, blinking large blue eyes up at the banner. It stares right back, stubbornly remaining there — now when did that happen? He wonders, ogling at it. 

 

[whenu: I’m going to turn 1 (one) pixel dead in the white void.]

[Though Kinger doesn’t notice it, a single pixel turns dead behind him.]

 

The banner remains hanging there. The confetti continues to twirl down, pinwheeling and dancing in flickers of colours. It’s a relief, after so long with just the whiteness and the silence. Kinger doesn’t like silence — it lets him think. He doesn’t like thinking. When he thinks, things usually end up hurting — so he doesn’t now. Now, he just sits back, and stares up into the cloud of confetti still gently raining from the ceiling. Pretty, he thinks simply, watching the colours twirl down like spinning butterfly wings. Or more like dragonflies, perhaps? Or lady beetles?

 

[Kitten_kokomo: *yeets ladybug at him*]

[the ladybug is not too pleased. It flies off in a huff.]

 

Kinger blinks, watching as an actual ladybeetle thwacks against his shoulder, wobbles around for a moment, then flies past him. He doesn’t count it as unusual— he’s probably just imagining it, watching quietly as it flutters off into the silent white. At least it’s a nice hallucination, and not a ghost of her.

 

“ColeMacgrathStan—KINGER CAN YOU PET A CAT?”

 

An unfamiliar voice suddenly booms, and Kinger, surprisingly, does not jump out of his skin this time.

He screams instead!

 

“ AH-! ”

 

Kinger scrunches up like a slinky, huddled inside his cloak, only his eyes poking out the top. If he had a heart it’d probably be racketing up to dangerous speeds. His gaze darts left to right, but finds nothing — well that’s odd. Kinger slowly un-scrunches, squints at the ceiling, then his hands, then at the fourth wall, then…shrugs. He fiddles with his hands, unsure of whether this is him being crazy, or the world. Both are very viable and reliable options!

 

“U-um. Yes? Perhaps. Maybe? I — well I only have —“ 

 

Kinger pauses, squinting at his hands again.

 

“…Eight fingers, so that’s two less to pet with, but I could. If I had a cat.”

 

Kinger looks around, checking for any. Nope! None!

 

“And I don’t — I thought I did, but he seems to have run off!”

 

Kinger nods studiously. Yes, he remembers having a cat at some point — big and fat, with three legs. C….Cal…..something. The memories are weirdly hazy, and for some some reason he wasn’t wearing his gloves back then, ( hands? He had hands? But his gloves are empty.) but he still knows about taking care of them! Still, no cat, so he must have run off. Kinger cocks his head, humming softly, slightly unsure of where to look when he’s speaking to…well he’s hallucinating, so himself. 

 

[MentallyUnwellAutism: give him a lemon.]

[a lemon appears beside Kinger. It begins lemoning with a cheery disposition. He does not notice it, as Kinger is currently contemplating soup.]

 

Suddenly, a person pops out of the ceiling. A little cartoon shape of a person, which appears to be made of…the midnight sky? Well that’s pretty! Kinger blinks at it with mild interest, completely ignoring the lemon lemoning in the background.

 

“xxmidnight12xx here— Kinger, do you have a favorite food?”

 

It asks, and as Kinger squints up at the weird person hanging from what appears to be completely empty space, and his thoughts wander. 

They then wander some more.

They’re visiting Tahiti I think — ah! Look, here they come back around again. One of them is wearing a Hawaiian shirt.

 

“Mac and Cheese.”

 

Kinger replies suddenly, almost on instinct. Does he really like Mac n cheese? Kinger can’t really remember ever eating it, but for some reason he has really, really strong opinions on Mac and cheese. And, well, they did ask!

 

“But only krafts! It’s the only one that tastes good and — well if you want to be more specific it’d be the microwave kind. I know lots of people don’t really like microwaved food but — I do! Or well. Some microwaved food. I like the kind you make on a stove too, but if I use the wrong kind of water it tastes off. So it takes more energy. But! With the microwave pot it has the flavor packet thing so doesn’t matter WHAT water I add, which I appreciate! It’s also cheap which is a plus...oh and it—”

 

[To the guy who asked if Kinger was autistic: yep.]

 

“— is quick to make, which is great if it’s late or I’m tired or I haven’t got the brain space to make anything complicated. So yes! Mac and cheese.”

 

Kinger nods studiously, satisfied with his answer. Even if he can’t remember what a Krafts actually is , he does remember accidentally burning himself on a stove once! Queenie probably helped him take care of that. Though, she wasn’t wearing gloves either…how odd!!

Suddenly, another gray person pops out of the floor, this one covered in thick black feathers, and wearing a fedora. It tips its hat, and asks;

 

“ Distorted_soup here — genuine question, do you even know how to actually play chess? You’re a chess piece. But. I don’t know. Do you???”

 

Kinger stares down at it. The weirdly polite and talkative bird-like hallucination politely stares back, it’s hands clasped expectantly. The lemon continues to lemon on in the background, very happy in its lemoning.


“Well, yes , but i’m…” Kinger trails off for a moment, remembering how Queenie absolutely destroys him at the game, fittingly enough. She held him at swordpoint once. It was unexpectedly romantic. “…Kind of shit at it, actually.”

Kinger blinks, his brow furrowing. Wait a second.

 

“Bitch? Damn. Arschgeige. ”

 

He pauses for a moment, waiting for Caine to come berate him about proper language. He does not.

 

“Huh! That’s cool!”

 

Kinger chirps happily, his mood lifted — this is an unexpected bonus, he must be outside the range of…whatever thingamajigger Caine put up! He’d smile if he could, but he doesn’t…have the ability to do that, anymore. Kinger twitches, a nagging itch plaguing his wood — he scratches his face absently, waiting for the feeling to go away. Eugh, he hates when this happens, which is part of the reason he doesn’t smile much. That and Jax throwing things at him. It’s rather hard to smile when there’s a piano lodged in your face.

Kinger jumps as an actual gryphon suddenly sticks its beaked head out a hole in the void. It considers him with one beady eye, talons fiddling with a lute, before squawking:

 

“ I am VianTheGryphon — it’s awfully lonely out here, isn’t it, Kinger? No one here but you and your thoughts.”

Well, my thoughts are awfully chatty, Kinger thinks to himself, but stays quiet, staring wide-eyed at the beast now talking to him. He knows he’s just imagining it, but wow, this is getting intense! He could count it’s feathers if he had enough time!

“ Is there anyone you’d want to be here with you to help break the boringness?”

 

Well that’s an unexpectedly civil question, from a giant bird…thing. Kinger tilts his head, tapping his chin…or where one would be.

 

“Oh! Well, usually I’d say Queenie, but—“ Kinger pauses. A few very…traumatizing memories swim to the surface. He shakes his head. I don’t want to think about that. “…she’s, uh…well I guess I don’t mind the lonlieness so much! I… I have myself to talk to!”

 

Kinger goes quiet for a moment. An awkward silence settles over the void.

 

[ UndiagnosedADHDmob: *yeets pillows and blankets* ]

 

Before his thoughts can become even more depressing, Kinger promptly gets one-hit-KO’d by a large feather pillow, which arrives with such force it actually slams him into the ground. He’s bowled over so easily you’d think there’s nothing inside that cloak of his, (there is, but barely) and his wooden head makes an audible smack where it meets the floor — along with a muffled yelp as he registers, well, his head meeting the floor. Kinger ends up sprawled on the white void with a pillow still on his face, his eyeballs rolling slowly over the ground, a large duvet—

 

[ ah. Wait. They said pillow S .]

 

— not getting the chance to reach him before four more pillows ratta-tat-tat from the ceiling. Kinger takes the blows like a champion, that meaning he doesn’t notice at all. 

The duvet slowly drifts down, settling over him.

 

“ UndiagnosedAdhdMob: Stay safe buddy!”

 

Kinger produces a weak thumbs up. 









[ Time for a new slew of comments to crest the horizon. I’m having to battle my inner “OUgh ParAgraPh TooO sMall” demons to do this, but it’s actually kinda fun…]

 

[just don’t expect any proper formatting from me. I’m far too tired and gay for that]

 

[anyway, I wonder how chaotic THESE comments will be.]

 

[also, don’t feel bad if you weren’t picked. I might come back to you, if convenient.]

Notes:

Raise your hand if you came over from Local Artist. Or don’t. I’m tired