Chapter Text
ACT I, SCENE I
Begin scene inside a forest, at nighttime. The environment has a magenta tint to it. Enter BRUSHA into the middle of the scene from behind some shrubbery.
BRUSHA (hesitantly): Hello?
Left without a response, BRUSHA steps forwards and the scene lightens.
A spotlight is cast onto a squarish paper on the floor. At the same time, smoke begins to fill the environment while the magenta tint of the scene lessens into a general darkness. This is subtle enough for BRUSHA to not notice.
BRUSHA steps into the spotlight and picks up the paper. It is blank on one side. They inspect it and turn it over.
It is a photograph of them and TISHA, enjoying themselves together.
The spotlight suddenly switches off, and the scene is now fully grey with no hint of the prior magenta apart from the photo and BRUSHA themselves.
A cyan forest fire bursts from behind BRUSHA, engulfing the backdrop fully. BRUSHA turns around and drops the photograph in horror.
BRUSHA backs away while taking in the scene for a moment, then they bolt away from the fire.
The fire expands quickly and BRUSHA continues to run. Exiting the forest to flee the fire, BRUSHA finds themselves on a coast. The sand is grey while the ocean has a subtle turquoise hue to it.
BRUSHA crouches down and reaches their hand towards the water. As soon as their hand makes contact, BRUSHA retracts it in surprise. Their fingertips are smoking where the water had grazed them.
BRUSHA looks behind her. The forest is burnt to ashes. The smoke has cleared. There remains only an expanse of flat, grey terrain and black sky that way.
BRUSHA looks back at the sea. It is not there. The ground beneath her is fully sand.
BRUSHA looks up at the sky. It is the same cyan as the fire.
BRUSHA looks down at their hands, and body. They find themselves devoid of any colour.
BRUSHA wakes up.
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CHAPTER ONE
Brusha stepped back, glaring up at their canvas.
It was the next morning, and they had decided to paint.
There’s something I cannot place that is wrong with my artwork.
Perhaps the forest is too bright, they thought. Perhaps the sky is not black enough, perhaps the moon I have chosen to add does not compliment the setting.
Perhaps the bright blue of the forest fire was throwing them off.
It is the same scene as in their dream. They’d painted it in an attempt to recreate and preserve what they’d felt.
With a sigh, Brusha lifted the canvas and tucked it away behind a curtain. Maybe they’d work on it later - the same thing they said for a lot of their paintings nowadays. They didn’t care if the wet paint stained the curtains - their room was already a mess, with paint spills beyond hope of cleaning.
Their room hadn’t been clean in months.
Brusha’s hand hovered over the door handle for a moment, debating whether they should go to lunch this time. Their hand finally clasped the handle and turned it.
Every day was just the same, they rethought. It wasn’t a new realisation. Nothing was really new. Every day just blended into each other like runny watercolours. Brusha was shocked that nobody had gone mad yet.
Brusha stepped into the elevator, only needing to go up a floor to the cafeteria.
The same food with the same chefs, the same runs having the same conversations with the same toons. The same rules with the same unanswered questions. The same conflicts, friendships and overarching goal - ichor. For what purpose, though? Why gather the thing we bleed? Brusha was sick.
The elevator let out its signature ding, signalling to Brusha that they had reached their floor.
Brusha was on autopilot. Their mind circled around to the same conclusions as they slipped out of their body, trusting it to take them where they needed to go.
Brusha felt they could certainly predict what would happen tomorrow. It was the same thing that would happen the day after, and the same thing that happened yesterday. Nothing. Their life never went anywhere. They’d wallow in their misery all the same, and one day they’d die.
It was stupid to fight it, though, nothing would come of it. They found this a reasonable conclusion to their thoughts as their feet took them to a table and sat them down at a chair.
Brusha chewed at their fingertips, not quite interested in whatever was being spoken about next to them.
A clear question cut through the noise. “Aren’t you getting food?” said somebody next to them.
“In a bit. I need to sit down.” Something was said in response.
“Whatever, you do you. Don’t listen to people trying to help, I guess.” The toon turned away, continuing to chat with others and peck at their own food.
“What did you say? I didn’t catch that.” Brusha snapped towards the toon next to them.
Gigi looked back, confused. “I said you do you, but this stuff’s the best. Seriously, I don’t know how Sprout and Cosmo do it! And any toons that volunteer. I bet they don’t do it alone…”
Gigi had gone back to rambling again, probably about her latest trinkets.
How odd. She must’ve corrected herself, so as to not sound rude. Brusha saw right through people like her.
Practically everyone in Gardenview was like that. They’d never speak their mind, but distort their words so a recipient could swallow it easily. It didn’t make it easier to swallow. It just added more layers for Brusha to tear through when trying to decode others’ words.
“I’m gonna go get you something to eat,” It was Gigi again, her grating voice cutting through Brusha’s subconscious.
“I’m actually alright for now, thanks.” Brusha didn’t give her the luxury of eye contact.
“It’s okay! You can stay sitting down, I want seconds anyway, mwehehehe…” That awful laugh, dripping with insincerity. Brusha had to hold back a scoff as the toon walked off.
Gigi was a hoarder. She was a messy, dirty, unclean toon. She took, and she took, and she would never stop taking. Keeping everything in that little room of hers, tainting even Brusha’s fine artwork with her grubby fingerprints.
Of course, Brusha was messy too, but it was controlled, elegant, artistic - surely.
There was definitely an ulterior motive to Gigi’s “kindness”. Nobody in Gardenview could be kind. They were all untrustworthy, like vultures who’d tear through your ichor-ridden corpse as soon as you were dead. Everybody - no exceptions. Even “sweet” little Squirm would sink his rounded fangs into you eventually.
Nobody here could be sweet. Not when Brusha was forced to be so bitter.
Brusha had half a mind to stand up and leave the cafeteria. They’d show that gachapon that her tricks didn’t work on them.
However, they were admittedly not against something to eat. Brusha had woken up a little earlier than usual because of a nightmare (Hey, isn’t Astro supposed to fix those?) and skipped breakfast. Their hunger had been festering all morning now.
So they stayed seated, not wanting to cause much of a scene anyway. People could start asking questions. “Why did you skip lunch as well?” “Why the lack of appetite?” “Are you alright?” Good Lord, such ear-bleeding, repetitive enquiries. Fitting for a repetitive existence.
Brusha hadn’t realised how much they’d tensed up. They jumped when a plate was set in front of them. “I’m back! With your food! And my seconds.” Gigi said cheerily. “Did I scare you?”
What an annoyance. Of course she’d scared them. What kind of moronic mindset would enable someone to slam a plate down in front of an unsuspecting toon?
Gigi, thankfully, was asking that question rhetorically. She sat down in her previous seat and continued her conversation like she’d never left.
Seeing no other option, Brusha took their silverware and began eating.
It was quite a solid lunch. Undoubtedly impressive if only two people cooked for all of Gardenview. But this didn’t surprise Brusha. It was like this every time they sat down to eat lunch. It may not be the same food, but it was certainly always of the same quality.
Brusha planned loosely ahead. Perhaps they’d stop slacking off and go on a run today. Most likely not.
Part of them wanted to think about their dream in great detail. Was it Astro’s doing? Perhaps that’s why he wasn’t there to fix it. Maybe they were finding themselves having more in common with Boxten.
It felt unlike a dream. Almost a bit real. Brusha knew it was absurd, it wasn’t real. Only a fool could think that. But the heat from the fire and the sting of the water certainly felt more present than in other dreams.
Brusha simply chalked it up to an odd, one time occurrence. It could have even been a failing of their memory. After all, even their nightmares never usually presented capacity for physical pain, so likely this was just a first.
Brusha’s fork scraped against the plate, and they snapped out of their thoughts once again. They’d finished the meal.
Gigi seemed to open her mouth - most definitely to offer to take Brusha’s plate - but they quickly stood up before she could ask, making it very clear they did not require her help (or that’s how they wanted it to come across).
Brusha, after depositing their dish and cutlery in the correct place, left the cafeteria.