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Once upon a time, eight children played a game.
They played, and they fought, and they killed, and they died and, after years of strife and misery had passed, they won.
And the eight young children became eight weary gods who just wanted to rest.
And so they created a world that was the same as the one they had left, and opened the door to this new-but-old world, and stepped through.
And they rested.
---------
You wake up with a jolt. There’s something- Someone- Drones? You need to-
You realise the sound that woke you was a floorboard creaking, and revise your threat assessment. Not a drone. One of your robots?
Wait, you’re in the medium, it could be a game monster. It could be one of your friends?
Wait, you’re not in the medium anymore. Where the hell are you?
Your eyes snap open. Ceiling, familiar scuffs and burn marks. Your room. You roll out of bed, grabbing your sword out of your strife specibus. Nothing is moving. You sweep for anything out of place. Robots on charge, computer with it’s anime lockscreen, pile of hats, all just as you left them. You cock your head, listen.
A thrum of background noise, some low rumbling you’ve never heard before. The clink of a mug being set down and granules (coffee?) being poured in. A voice, low and muttering.
There is someone else in your apartment. You absolutely do not panic in any way. You stifle any reaction other than a slight widening of your eyes.
There is someone else in your apartment.
You focus on the hilt of the sword in your hand, on how the room around you is the same as it’s always been. When you regain your objectivity, you grab your shades from your desk. Sliding them on, you push the door open slowly, watching the slice of the room beyond as it widens.
This is not your apartment. The walls of your apartment are bare white, and these walls are painted a dark red. You look back into your room. That’s the same room, no doubt. But the door leads onto a different hallway, one with too many rooms leading off it. Your grip on your sword tightens, and you slip out into the hallway. There are things on the floor you did not leave there, the walls are a different color, there are too many doors, and there is someone else here. You carefully push the door that lead to the main room, and it still leads to a main room.
With a person in it. That, judging by their shadow, is not one of your friends.
You take a deep breath, grip your sword harder, and push the door again. The floorboard creaks, and a shadow moves across the room. Cloth rustles, and there’s a few electronic beeps. A phone, perhaps?
The person starts talking to someone, and the voice is familiar somehow but you were never good at distinguishing between people by sound, you had enough trouble learning what your name sounded like.
The main room (or at least the parts of it you can see) has changed as well. The walls are the same dark red color, and the kitchen counter doesn’t have your water purification equipment. Instead there’s a microwave, and other actual kitchen appliances. Your sendificator is still on the side, and the tiles are still black and white, but… it’s enough to raise the hairs on the back of your neck.
You guess you better get this over with. You count in your head, one, two, three! and burst through the door. You snap into a combat pose, ready to defend against this intruder.
You barely have enough time to glimpse dark shades, red shirt, blonde, no horns, before they fall off the futon. You think they (he?) were attempting to get into a defensive posture. Dark liquid (coffee?) soaks into the carpet.
You assess the rest of the room. No other intruders. No other immediately identifiable threats.
Just the one.
You stay in your position, sword out in front, legs wide for balance, centre of gravity low. There’s another burst of noise, the intruder talking (yelling?). Then they stand up, and you get a proper look.
It’s your Bro.
But that’s impossible, your Bro is dead, so the person on the other side of the futon is still an intruder, a threat.
He holds his hands up, palms towards you, and speaks again. You recognise your name in all the noise, and narrow your eyes. Theres the familiar ping of a strife specibus, and you flick into a defensive stance, but the sord that appears is tossed over the futon towards you. It almost seems like a surrender. You’re not sure what to do.
Your Br-The intruder speaks again, tilting his head in question. You ignore it and sweep the room again, keeping your main focus on him.
You move, keeping your sword up as you make to round the futon, and look him over. He keeps on talking, a frown flitting across his face. Something moving out of the corner of your eye makes your head snap around, sword still pointed at him. A crow perches on the windowsill. It caws roughly, but your attention is completely caught by what’s beyond it.
A city. An actual, real, alive city. You keep a quarter of your attention on the intruder but the rest is reeling at the sight. There are lights and cars and other buildings made of shining glass and so many people. There must be hundreds, thousands of other humans around you. You’re transfixed by the sight, drifting to the sill to see more of this pulse, this life. Your city was drowned, and only by holding your breath and diving down down down were you able to graze the tip of the tallest building (that one right there, the one that’s sparkling in the light) with your fingertips. There’s more sound from behind you, but you ignore it. He’ll shut up if you don’t react, and this city...
You snap back after a few minutes, and turn around. Somehow, this city is alive again. It’s... no longer unthinkable that your Bro is alive as well. You slowly lower your sword arm. The person sitting on the futon looks up from his phone, forehead creasing. You scan the area, notice a pad of paper and pencil on the futon next to him. Perfect. You grab them with your non-sword hand, scrawling across the first sheet of paper, then flipping it to him.
Who are you? Why are you in my apartment?
He stares at the words for a second or two, then frowns again and speaks, tilting his head again. You throw the pencil at him, and tap the paper. You can’t understand that spoken shit, you need a fresh dose of sweet words written on paper. You nudge him with the pad, then step back. He pauses, then grabs the pencil from his lap, writing out a response.
i should probs be asking you those questions man you literally jumped out of my bathroom and aimed a sword at my face
but ill be generous
the names dave strider and this is my apartment bro
You read, then cock your head to the side. Your sword flashes back into your sylladex, and you hold your hand out for the pencil instead.
My name is Dirk. My room appears to have been transplanted into this apartment, and me with it. What year is it today?
He raises an eyebrow, but holds his hand out for the pencil. You put it in his palm, and watch as he hunches over. The tip of his tongue sticks out as he writes. It reminds you of the other Dave, the young one you met. You wonder where he’s ended up.
my phone says its april 2009
why are we passing notes like some high school cliche?
He offers the pad back, and you take it, thinking a moment before scribbling a response.
Unless you give me your Chumhandle this is the only method of communication both of us can easily understand. Why are you relying on your phone to tell you which year it is?
The two of you have settled side-by-side on the futon, sliding the pad back and forth.
kid i dont know how much you know so imma not get into all the time shit right now
You raise a single eyebrow.
Dude. I’m pretty sure I know more than you about the ‘time shit’, despite your aspect. I grew up in the 25th century. But let’s not get into all the I know that you know that I know bullshit.
He mulls that over for a bit.
thats fair
whats the future like
Wet.
cool
There’s a lull in conversation. Both of you appear to be ignoring the elephant lurking in the corner. But you want to get to scope out that elephant. Get up and friendly with the elephant. Wait, why are you suddenly thinking about the logistics of a relationship with an elephant? Fuck your brain, that was an entirely innocent metaphor about your Bro’s blatant ignorance of the familial relationship between the two of you. Oh wait he’s saying something. Yeah, still can’t understand spoken shit. You grab the pad and wave it at him. He takes it, and scribbles his message down.
so you know that im kinda your brother right do you know that or did i just make this even more arkward than it already is
Yes, I am aware.
and you still attacked me with a sword huh
You shug to that. Admitting your complete inexperience with people other than yourself feels like defeat somehow.
I didn’t know it was you. You were long dead.
You couldn’t be here, so it was an intruder. In my experience, intruders are hostile, and so an attack was my best option.
His mouth twists, and he moves to write, then pauses. The pencil touches paper again, but he still doesn’t write anything. You tilt your head at him. He puts the pad to the side, and turns to you, then speaks a short word (was that one of the swears? You’ve tried to learn those and that sounded similar...). He stays like that for a bit, just looking at you with that twisted mouth and furrowed forehead (he looks guilty.) You walk back to the windowsill, watching the city.
You try to reconcile the sight with the drowned towers you’re so familiar with. Sure, the layout of the towers is mostly the same, but this new (old?) view is entirely different. There isn’t a reef coiling along the edges of the highway, no turtles or stingrays blocking the view. The blue tint of the water is gone, and you’re seeing everything from a completely different angle.
But you think the thing that changed the most is that the buildings aren’t hollow shells anymore. There are lights in the windows, and as the sun sets the city changes. The cars buzzing about on the streets (its so strange to see them move), the empty offices you can see right into, the glow of the streetlamp on the horizon, all of them hold your gaze. But what you see most are the people. You see a couple holding hands, suited men and women hurrying along, all the little intricacies of life on display. You can feel your Bro’s eyes on your back, a little prickle across your shoulders,, but you tell yourself I’m safe, it’s ok and keep looking out.
After the sun’s completely gone, he stands beside you, looking out. You glance up at him, see he’s got the pad. He’s written a lot, and you tear your eyes away from the lights to take it from him, letting your eyes skim across his words.
you like the view huh
yep you look like youre lovin that view out my window all relaxed and shit
why am i even writing all this down
oh yeah because you cant hear
or something like that anyway i dont know the details you didnt say
well not say you know what i mean
we haven’t really talked about stuff and i kinda want that to happen because you’re my little brother right
yeah youre him youre dirk
and just a few minutes ago i was bleeding out at the feet of an alien bitch so im kinda confused about whats going on in here
is this some kind of cool afterlife where i get to hang with you
are you dead too
i dont know
i hope not
you really like that view
why
thats my first question i guess
i have lots
i missed you
i mean i couldnt even be sure you existed but you do and its great even though you attacked me with a sword
nice sword btw that shits quality
also i kinda want to hug you so can i do that
because youre not saying much but idk
i can kinda sense that you didnt have it all sunny side up in the future
and im like meant to be your guardian right so
i mean i left the supplies and shit did you get those i hope you did
i guess ill just give this to you i mean whats the worst that can happen ok lets not start that worst stuff thats just tempting fate
so
yeah
You look up. He’s taking in the view, lights reflecting off his shades. You take a breath. You know how to do this, you’ve practiced with Rox, you won’t freak out this time. Just, arms round waist and then there you go. You rub the back of your neck, then lose your nerve, grabbing a pen from the table.
I do like the view. My apartment overlooked the sea, though it was in the exact same location. S)(e melted the icecaps, and drowned the earth. Roxy and I were the only humans alive. That’s why we’re writing: I had no one to teach me how to speak or understand speech. My hearing works perfectly. The supplies in my apartment enabled me to survive until the Game, so my childhood could have been a lot worse than it was. I’m not dead at the moment, though I have died a few times; long story.
As for the hugging thing
You pause, unsure which words to use. He’s been reading over your shoulder, and he looks at you. You place the pad carefully on the table, and rub at the back of your neck.
There’s a knock on the door, and your head snaps around, sword in your hand again. Drones? No, they’d just blast the door in, your robots don’t have the programming to knock, skeletons don’t move very far, they just wander around in circles, your friends would message you to say they’re coming over, whats-
Bro slowly pushes your sword arm down, calling out to the person on the other side of the door.
Oh. Right.
It’s 2009, not 2422, you’re not in the medium anymore, and there are other alive people that have the ability to knock on a door.
The door opens, and Dave, the player Dave, sticks his head around it. Your Bro speaks, los of rambling monotone words and younger Dave speaks back, then walks in, waving to you. You wave back, grabbing the pad. You rip off the page full of writing and stuff it in your pocket, then write a big SUP on the next page, holding it up. His iShades light up.
TG: sup to you too bro mind if i hang in here for a bit
TT: Sure.
TT: I appear to have started seeing double.
TG: wow youre so funny my laughter is literally splitting my sides open right now guts all over the floor thanks to your hilarious joke
TG: yes there are two of me there are also two of you and two of rose and two of fucking everyone
TG: except the trolls i guess
TG: wait no they had scratch partner things on the other planet thing or something i didn’t really listen when karkat ranted about it
TT: What happened to the trolls?
TG: dunno man i just woke up in my old room and decided to come over here and chill with you peeps
You remember a conversation the two of you had on a rooftop. You don’t ask why he felt the need to come over here and surreptitiously check him over for injuries. You find none, but the urge to re-murder the version of you likely resurrected in the other apartment surfaces nonetheless. You suppress it. For now.
The low buzz of conversation still fills the room, two nearly identical voices taking turns to babble at each other like baboons. Wait, where did that come from? Babbling baboons? You’ll have to remember that for your next rap, the two words fit well together.
TT: What are you two chatting about?
TG: im basicly explaining what a scratch is to him
TG: you know why i exist and stuff
TG: hes kinda freaking out its hilarious
Your Bro is indeed ‘kinda freaking out’, as his voice has risen to a higher pitch and his hands are flying all over the place.
You snort, a small smile flickering across your face. When you turn back to Dave, he’s looking at you oddly.
TT: What’s up?
TG: nothing
TG: wanna help me explain you can draw diagrams and shit get all the understanding flowing like cheap beer
TT: Sure, I’ll get working
The two of you procede to double-team your brother with diagrams (in sbahj style, of course) and explanation until sweet exposition rains from the rooftops .
-----------------------
Later, you slip out of the window and climb the fire escape up to the roof.
You know what you’re going to find there.
The stars are out. You pick out familiar constellations. Everything else has changed, but the stars are the same, though you can’t see as many of them.
The gravel crunches beneath your feet. You look around, scanning the ac unit, the radio mast. All as they were when it was drones you were facing. This is familiar territory. The whole rooftop is dressed in shadows. You slip your shades off, hooking them onto the collar of your shirt.
There’s a voice from the shadows. The glint of streetlights reflecting off a pair of triangular shades. A silhouette, leaning against the wall. You fix his position in your mind.
Your strife specibus pings softly, and your sword appears in your hand. You squeeze, trace the contours of the hilt, and raise your blade so that the point draws a line to his chest.
He speaks again, and you’re suddenly filled with burning, irrational jealousy that this version of you doesn’t get left out of conversations, isn’t always behind everyone else, isn’t shunned when the first person who can actually communicate properly shows up. You snap into combat pose, sword up, face blank.
A dry laugh comes from the shadows, and you burn. He had everything, this version of you, he had people around him and he didn’t have to fight for his life and all he had to do was one job, all he had to do was raise a kid and he couldn’t even get that right.
You listen for- there it is, the soft ping of his sword being drawn. You keep listening, hear the rush of air that means he flashstepped, and dive, rolling forward. Your sword sweeps out behind you, and he jumps, flashing away again. God he’s fast. You barely have time to think, it’s just block, block, strike, miss, spin, dive.
Instinct and rapid guesswork can only take you so far, and his next strike catches you across the top of your arm. You hiss, but keep up your guard. You focus, and flashstep behind where you think he’ll appear next, sword arcing out and slicing through empty air because he anticipated that, just like you anticipate him in the shadows behind you and you race forward, into the empty space in the centre of the roof.
There’s a pause then. You focus, searching for brief moment. Electricity crackles around your hands. Looks like you still have your godtier powers then.
A hand thwaps against the back of your head, sending you stumbling forward. Over the sound of your ringing ears there’s a low chuckle, and you snarl as you realise he’s playing with you.
White-hot rage flashes before your eyes, and you lunge at the shadows, seeking him out. Sparks crackle along the length of your blade, and between one strike and the next you close your eyes and look with your mind, seeking out his soul. You see bright orange, and blood-red, and another shape, orange twisted under dark grey and deep purple, flickers of red and blue, but before you can think the whole thing flashes towards you and you turn to meet it, blocking with your eyes still closed. You open them to meet his above your crossed swords.
What is up with his soul?
You don’t have the time to find out, because between one second and the next you’re back in the apartment and Dave is in front of you. Your sword jumps forward, the tension suddenly gone, and you only just stop it from hitting him. You frown, then register the expression on his face. He starts speaking, shouting, gesturing wildly with his arms. You let your sword dissolve away, and pointedly tap below your ear twice. He growls, and grabs the pad of paper still lying on the coffee table
He writes quickly and without care, the pencil tearing through the paper once or twice.
what the fuck were you THINKING he’ll tear you to shreds i cant even
The pen stutters, then the pad is thrown at you, and he paces as you catch it and consider a response.
I just wanted to see if the stars were the same.
It’s a simple enough lie, and better than the truth. He scans it, then throws the pad down and starts shouting again. The door creaks, and your head snaps around. You manage to refrain from drawing your sword, but it’s a close thing. Your Bro walks in, looking half asleep, and leans against the wall, listening.
Dave drags one hand down his face, and something about his voice has changed, become lower and somehow more heartfelt. Your Bro frowns, and speaks. Dave snaps back, and Bro looks at you with raised eyebrows. You catch your name several times, and frown. They’re talking about you now, obviously, they’re talking about you right in front of you. You cross your arms and collapse into the futon and sulk.
The voices go back and forth for a while, then a door opens and closes. You hear the slide of a pen across paper. You ignore the sign held out for you to read, turning away and curling your legs up towards your chest. A sigh. The edge of the pad prods you a few times, and you stalwartly do nothing. Your Bro’s voice says something you can’t understand because you’re a weirdo who grew up without any real human interaction. You can’t even fight properly, you’re sulking like a child, you’re basically a big whiny baby who should just get over himself.
There’s a creak of springs, a weight settling into the futon beside you. You hunch more, continuing with your internal list of reasons why you are a bad person. The whole Jake situation, giving in to the Tricksters, what happened to ARquiussprite. You hear cloth rustling, feel an arm settling behind you. You hesitate, fingers uncurling slightly, then rock forward and grab the pad, moving away from the expectation in the air. The pen rolls between your fingers, and you look over whats already written. Dave’s thick words remind you of how angry he’d been. There’s a softer question underneath (are you ok?). You think about answering, then the door opens and you jerk to your feet, stuttering to a halt when you see it’s Dave. He’s muttering to himself about something or another, and he walks over, dumping first aid supplies over the coffee table before grabbing your arm and pushing you back onto the futon. You wonder what all the bandages are for. Your Bro leans forward to talk over you to him. Dave snaps out a reply and grabs your wrist, tugging your arm out. You shift, not quite comfortable with the way he’s grabbing you. You’ve never really got used to people touching you. He frowns at you, then pushes up your sleeve.
There’s a cut there on your shoulder, a titchy one. It’s not deep, as far as you can see. Dave grabs a bottle from the table, pouring some onto a cloth. The cloth gets pressed to your arm, and you hiss as it stings. Dave mutters something at you, likely an insult to your masculinity. He grabs a bandage, wrapping it round and round your arm until there’s none left, then tieing it off neatly. You look down at your now neatly bandaged arm. Dave nods to himself.
Your Bro grabs the pad, flipping to a new page.
you got anything else that needs treating bro lil me seems be a secret nurse or some shit you got a uniform hidden away in the back of your clos wait what am i writing dirk do you have wounds
I’m good. Not bleeding out of any other orifices. BTW, looks like we still have godtier powers.
You show both of them, and there’s a brief scrabble for the pen. Dave wins, and writes with your Bro reaching over you to try and swat it out of his hands.
i know dumbass how do you think i got you out of there also old me you WISH you looked as good in a nurse uniform as i do
Your Bro grabs the pen and pad, leaning back to his side and scribbling before flashing it at the two of you.
fu man fame takes its toll also whats godtier
You smirk and stick your hand out, letting magenta energy crackle between your fingers. Your Bro stares for a moment, then slowly leans back and lets his head thunk against the back of the futon. He lifts it back up, and you tilt your head at him in question. He stares beyond you, face paling slightly. You glance back, and see Dave casually floating about a foot above the cushion, grinning at your Bro. You hear another thunk, and smirk. Dave holds his fist up, and you bump it.
Your Bro says something that sounds like it might be “Fuck.” You’ve been trying to learn that one. Along with your friends names and all the other swears and oh you guess you’ll have to start on getting Bro right as well. You know your own name, kinda. You were kinda twitchy those first few weeks, and they had the habit of calling your name to get your attention, and when that didn’t work they had to throw something at you, and then you’d slice the thing in half before it hit you and pay attention. For the sake of the furniture, you learnt to recognise someone calling to you.
You stretch, fingers laced together. Arms out in front, then up behind your head. You click your neck as your hands settle on the back of your head, and stand up. You drift back to the window, letting your head rest against the glass as you look out at the life that surrounds you.
Your brothers talk (argue? Young Dave laughs, and his older counterpart is rambling) behind you, and you can always murder your own older counterpart later. Right now, you just look at the lights, the cars, the people.
You decide you quite like this new world.