Chapter Text
Your name is Dirk Strider and you are starting to get the hang of this Prince of Heart thing.
At least, you’re getting the hang of it in a way where you can weaponize it for something useful, rather than just shredding your own soul to bits. You’re already pretty good at that.
You adjust your grip and flex your fingers around the hilt of your sword. Soul energy crackles off your fingertips like pink lighting. It sparks down the length of your blade, making the steel appear to glow. All of this is just for show, of course. The pink energy is intangible, and can’t really hurt anyone. It’s more of a runoff, excess soul energy bleeding out into the visible spectrum of light. But even so.
It looks rad as hell.
DAVE: showoff
Your face doesn’t emote, but you quietly feel pleased with yourself. Perhaps if you were less of a totally cool dude, you might smile, or give a sly and playful smirk. But, nah. You’re simply far too chill for that. You’ve got this shit on lockdown.
Dave mirrors your posture, settling into a lowered center of gravity. You know he won’t stay like that for long. You’re watched him fight before. He flies across the battlefield, only touching down with a foot against the ground when he needs to kick off whip-quick in a new direction. You question if it’s godtier floatiness, or if he’s just that fucking fast. His fighting style is better served by being light on his feet, but he always starts like this, his stance solid and grounded. You know where he learned it from, because it perfectly matches yours.
You’re surprised that Dave asked to strife with you, considering… Well, considering. A lot of it is unspoken, but you’re good at intuiting more than what is simply said. You’re surprised, but not adverse to the idea. You’d never turn down the opportunity to see him fight up close. The opportunity to lock blades with any version of your bro is frankly enough to make you almost crack a smile. Someone who knew how to read your non-expressions might even call you positively giddy with excitement.
Hesitantly, Jake clears his throat from the sideline.
JAKE: Are you both very sure about this?
JAKE: Im happy to play referee in your bout of friendly sparring, but i honestly question my fitness for the role!
JAKE: I doubt i could be very effective in stopping either one of you if you didnt want to be stopped.
JAKE: I really dont want things to get out of hand…
DIRK: That’s why we need you.
DIRK: Jake, you are possibly the best person to judge when things are getting out of hand.
DIRK: And I recognize that I am not.
DIRK: Besides, it’s not like we don’t want to be stopped.
DAVE: i want to be stopped
DIRK: I also want to be stopped.
DIRK: There. See? Nothing to worry about.
DIRK: Like you said.
DIRK: It’s just a friendly match between good bros.
DIRK: I trust you to tell us when enough is enough.
JAKE: Alright! Well, that certainly makes me feel a bit better.
JAKE: And im flattered that you trust my judgement.
JAKE: I will referee your little scrum, and i promise i wont let it get too far!
DAVE: yeah man weve got this
DAVE: the question is
DAVE: are you ready to get your ass kicked into next week?
You answer by twirling your sword in a tight arc, pink light cracking down the reflective surface of the polished blade.
Dave responds in kind, a flare of red energy in the vague shape of a gear circling behind him like a halo. Somewhere, a clock counts down.
Tick tock.
DAVE: come at me nooklicker
You raise one eyebrow with pointed intention, just high enough that it crests above the top edge of your shades.
DIRK: Don’t you mean bulgeeater?
DAVE: licking nook is gender neutral and you know that
You do know that. But correcting him wasn’t the point.
Dave’s voice is cool and his face is smooth as water, but his cheeks color under the rim of his shades and across his nose. He’s absolutely picturing you getting friendly with troll anatomy. Just as intended. Game, set, match. Point, Dirk. The fight hasn’t even started yet and you’re already scoring against him. It’s a war of attrition, and the dignity of your sexual preferences makes fine cannon fodder. You’re not above taking tactical advantage of primitive human civilization and their hang ups. It’s downright hilarious, actually.
DIRK: Are you seriously picturing me getting up close and personal with some slimy troll dick right now?
DIRK: Dave.
DIRK: That's disgusting.
DAVE: shut up!!!
You keep your eyebrow raised, and Dave makes a BLUH face at you.
You don’t have time to wage war with more mind games, though, because Jake steps up and raises a pistol into the air in properly dramatic fashion.
JAKE: Ready!
You don’t let it show on your face, but you have been looking forward to this for a long time.
Tick tock.
JAKE: Set!
Your heart beats hard in your chest. Excitement.
Tick tock.
JAKE: Go!
BANG!
Tick.
Predictably, Dave kicks off the ground immediately. Closing the distance between you in a flash. He’s fast.
Tock.
You stand your ground, taking up the defense. You’re not as fast as Dave, but it doesn’t matter how fast he is when you know exactly where he’s going to end up.
Tick.
He’s on you before the bullet has even left the barrel. There’s an awful noise as steel meets game-construct-material. You parry his opening strike, swiveling his momentum against him, creating an opening to counter his attack.
Tock.
You shove off against his blade, twisting yours upward. But you’re met with little resistance.
Tick.
Dave has the strength advantage of a two-handed sword, but it falls from his grip.
Tock.
His fingers are loose and shaking.
Tick.
Your eyes follow the curve of your swing, from Dave’s hands, up.
Tock.
This close, behind his shades, his eyes are on you. Wide. Terrified.
Tick.
Your sword comes down on a blur of empty air.
You stop dead in your tracks. Frozen. Your heart is pounding for an entirely different reason.
You stand locked in place, mid-way through a swing. Your eyes are wide and you don’t blink. You feel like you’ve stopped breathing, except you can hear yourself panting for breath. Your chest aches.
You can’t look away from the sight of it. The look in Dave’s eyes burns into the empty space like an afterimage.
Tock.
JAKE: Good gravy!!!
JAKE: That all happened so fast, im not entirely sure what just happened.
JAKE: Dave, are you alright? Dirk?
You hear Dave’s voice from somewhere to the left of you, not far. He’s mumbling, and the flow of his monologue is deceptively steady.
DAVE: yeah
DAVE: nope
DAVE: fuck this
DAVE: fuck that
DAVE: nevermind
DAVE: uncle
DAVE: im being for real
DAVE: look at me
DAVE: nothing ironic about it
DAVE: lame as shit
DAVE: giving up the cool guy shtick
DAVE: taking off the untouchable tough guy persona like its a
DAVE: a fucking cape or something
DAVE: tying it to a stick to wave around in the air
DAVE: white flag
DAVE: ass up groveling on the ground with my face in the mud
DAVE: prostrated in the most embarrassing and genuine gesture of surrender ever
DAVE: like shit that dude must be so serious
DAVE: no way he would stoop to such uncool shit otherwise
DAVE: shit must be straight up un fucking tenable
Jake is walking over to Dave now. Dave is still talking. You should say something.
You manually untense your muscles, forcing yourself to move despite how every bone in your body feels like ice. You pick up the ½bladekind abandoned at your feet and captchalogue it into your sylladex. You’ll give it back to him later. When he’s a little less… Jumpy.
On further thought, you return your own sword to your strife specibus. You don’t think the sight of you holding a sword would go over especially well right now.
You should definitely say something.
You turn and make your way over to where Dave and Jake are standing. Your movement is deliberately smooth, not that anyone would notice. You’re always deliberately smooth.
JAKE: Oh, i knew i shouldnt have let you talk me into this!
JAKE: Dont i feel like a silly old chump.
JAKE: Are you alright, Dave? Youre not terribly hurt, are you?
DAVE: hey dude no
DAVE: you did a real bang up job or whatever
DAVE: dont worry about it
DAVE: in fact
DAVE: forget all about it
DAVE: just act like this never happened
JAKE: Well, if you say so…
You come to a stop by them, just a fraction of an inch outside of their personal bubble. You don’t think anyone particularly wants you invading their personal space right now. And you just kind of. Stand there.
You’ve got to say something to him, but you’re pathetically lost on what to say. Hey, bro, sorry that I traumatized you for life in a different universe. Ugh. You’re embarrassed that you even considered that for a second.
Dave looks alright. There’s no blood. His hands aren’t shaking anymore. Light reflects off the smooth surface of his shades, rendering them a solid wall of black.
Dave turns his face in your direction, and you catch him doing the same once-over that you did to him. He’s making sure you’re alright. It would be touching, if it didn’t make you feel like a monster.
Dave nods at you. It’s the slightest incline of his head, imperceptible to anyone but the coolest of dudes.
Tell him.
Say something. Literally anything.
You just nod back.
You’re a fucking coward.
Jake claps his hands, straightening his back and speaking without room for argument.
JAKE: Enough of this poppycock!
JAKE: Weve been practicing fraymotifs all frigging day!
JAKE: Why dont we just sit down and relax a bit?
JAKE: What do you say, gents?
Deep in the pit of your stomach, you’re disappointed. You wonder if that makes you a terrible person. Who are you kidding. You know it does.
DIRK: That sounds positively fucking delightful.
Dave groans and collapses on the ground, kicking his legs out.
DAVE: weve been at this all day and havent accomplished jack shit
DAVE: im never going to get the smell of hope out of these magic pajamas
DAVE: hey why does hope smell like vanilla
DAVE: and what can you even do with a heart-hope-time fraymotif anyway
DAVE: rip out someones soul from the future and give it a good talking to
DAVE: make it change its ways through power of positive thinking
DAVE: oh shit
DAVE: thats kind of sick actually
DAVE: can we do that
JAKE: If we can, im sure well figure it out!
Jake drops into a sitting position and joins Dave on the ground with a hearty oomph. He sways to the side until he knocks shoulders with Dave, a bright smile lighting up his face.
JAKE: Keep your chin up, Dave!
JAKE: Theres new adventures around every corner, and every day is a fresh opportunity!
Now the only one left standing is you. You idle at the edge of the social bubble, sticking out like a sore thumb. It's awkward as hell, and definitely not cool. You need to do something to fix this, stat. Get it together, Strider.
You join them, sitting down in a way that looks easy and confident, and not at all like you're debating the merits of pretending to get an urgent message from Roxy and leaving before you make things worse.
What a joke. You know you can't leave until you've fixed this mess.
You sit cross legged on Jake’s other side, trying to be courteous and give Dave some space. You keep your hands balanced on your knees, in sight and non-threatening. The soft palms of your weird fingerless pajama gloves are warm against the thin fabric of your leggings.
You feel just a little bit ridiculous.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
It’s quiet, and every second is agony.
DIRK: Are you sure you're alright?
Goddamnit. Why the fuck did you say that.
Dave clearly just told Jake to forget it, and now here you go, bringing shit up again. Great job fucking things up. You should have just stayed quiet.
Dave turns his head away slightly, focusing on something off in the distance. You can't see anything of his face besides the dark inner plane of his shades.
DAVE: thanks
DAVE: i mean
DAVE: yeah
DAVE: im fine
DAVE: chill as a cucumber in the supermarket at misting time
DAVE: but
DAVE: its cool of you to ask
DAVE: so
DAVE: thanks
DIRK: Sure.
DIRK: No problem.
You’re grateful to have Jake sitting between you and Dave like a wall of ostensible stoicism. Otherwise, this whole ordeal might have been even more excruciating than it already is. Oh, who are you kidding. You’d still manage to make it uniquely unbearable, forging new heights just to torture yourself.
You keep your shades fixed on the distance, but from the peripheries of your vision you watch Dave pick at the soft material of his pants. He seems to be doing better, at least. His hands are steady and not trembling. So maybe you didn’t fuck everything up irreparably forever.
DAVE: you know
DAVE: i wish i knew you sooner
DAVE: it would have been cool to have someone like you on my side
DAVE: instead of
DAVE: well
Dave sighs, relaxing into the flow of words, and you feel rigid with the weight of whatever truth is being dropped on you right now.
DAVE: i wont lie
DAVE: a lot of things pretty much fucking sucked when i was a kid
DAVE: and i know better than anyone that its stupid to want to change how things were
DAVE: but
DAVE: i wish i had someone like you
Jake leans over, giving Dave a gentle pat on the back. The vanilla scent of hope wafts around you.
Tick. Tock.
Your chest feels tight. Like something tugging at you from the inside.
The clock slows.
Tick… Tock…
The clock stops. Silence. And with a crack of vanilla beans and pure light, it breaks– splinters.
And then.
Tock…
Tick.
The tension in your chest suddenly releases, like a rubber band snapping, you feel something pulled, give, and break away.
Tock. Tick.
You shake your head, almost amused by how fucking ridiculous that concept is.
DIRK: Heh.
DIRK: No you don’t.
Tock. Tick.
DIRK: I’m certain I would’ve been a shit guardian.
==> Dirk: Usurp
Your name is Dirk Strider and you…
You…
Where are you?
What just happened?
You are currently sitting on the floor of what appears to be an Earth building. It’s not grayscale enough to be a Carapacian structure from the furthest ring, and not glaringly purple or yellow enough to be Derse or Prospit. From the framing and interior design of the room, you’d estimate the architectural style to be from around the late 1990s or early 2000s.
You blink, taking everything in rapidly as your eyes scan across the room.
The only entrance and exit points are three doors, one window, and a hatch leading up to the ceiling. Light comes in from the window, illuminating everything in a dull orange dusk. Littering just about every surface in sight is a disorganized mess of music mixing equipment, colorful puppets, and various bladed weapons.
It takes a second longer than it should, but then it clicks. This is your apartment. The superficial details are different, but the underlying layout is the same.
Ah. You are in a dream bubble. That makes the most logical sense. You’ve seen the elder gods glub up things like this, a mix of memories melded into one dream-space, one person’s childhood bedroom bleeding over into another’s. You’ve never had the misfortune of seeing your own memories distorted like this, and it caught you off guard. It’s rather… Unsettling.
God, paradox space is weird. The whims of paradox space are as capricious as they are inscrutable.
The next question is how did you get here?
Did you fall asleep? Were you knocked unconscious?
As far as you can tell, you were sitting with Jake and Dave when you must have… passed out.
At least, that’s preferable to the alternative. You’d doubt something could have killed you that suddenly. At least, you hope not. You’d like to think you’d at least notice if someone was sneaking up on you with a knife aimed at your back.
God, it’s going to be embarrassing if you’re dead. Roxy will never let you live this down.
No. No, you’re not dead.
At least, you don’t feel dead.
You slide your shades off your face, angling them so you can see your own reflection. You breathe out a tight sigh of relief when you see your eyes. Your eyes are not blank white voids, not today.
You quickly slide your shades back in place, getting up to your feet with a glance around the room.
Great.
You’re alive. You’re unconscious. You’re in a dream bubble.
So, what now?
You stand perfectly still and focus, trying to wake yourself up. But a moment passes, and then another, and you’re still here. You breathe out and close your eyes, putting all your focus into every rapid-fire trick you’ve ever learned to trick your brain into action. But when you open your eyes, you’re still standing here.
Weird. You’ve always been able to maintain both your conscious and unconscious awareness.
Something about this is deeply unsettling, and the feeling just keeps getting worse. Little things aren’t making sense. Something is wrong. You’re not sure what.
You pick your way across the room with careful steps, avoiding getting tangled in the jumble of computer cables. This place is a mess. The whole room is one big booby trap for anyone unlucky enough to be caught unaware. The amused, glassy eyes of puppets shine in every corner, watching you, waiting for you to slip on a stray shuriken and get a face full of plush puppet ass.
With nothing else to do, and the feeling of not knowing itching under your skin, you start trying doors.
You turn the knob of the first door. It’s locked.
The second door opens into a small bathroom.
You try the third door, and it opens feely. The layout of your old apartment is familiar enough that you expect the ocean. In your memory, opening this door leads to an open expanse – the wind skimming off the sea buffeting your face and tugging at your hair, the sun beating down hot against your skin, the cries of seagulls circling overhead, a rusted old scaffolding ladder down into the surf far below.
That’s why it stops you in place to see nothing. At least, nothing familiar. Beyond the door you find a musty hallway, the buzz of half-dead fluorescent lights, a track of old carpet, and a concrete stairwell leading into dimly lit gray nothing.
You slowly shut the door.
The metal door knob squeaks under your tight grip. You breathe out, controlled. You stare at the wood grain of the door in front of you and wait for reality to resolve itself.
Something is wrong. Something is wrong.
In a dream bubble, your memories decide the terrain.
These aren’t your memories.
Or.
This isn’t a dream bubble.
You go to the window. You lift off and glide over the floor, not bothering to carefully tread around the various hazards. All of a sudden, you’re really not interested in fucking around anymore.
You set down in front of the only window in the room and look outside.
That is not the ocean. That is a city. A human city. An early 20th century human Earth city. And it’s crawling with people.
That… That is more humans than you’ve ever seen in your life. Which isn’t hard, considering you can count all of the humans you’ve ever met in your life on your fingers, and you’d still have two fingers left to gouge out your own eyes.
You stare down at the masses of humans as your vague dread sinks into outright fear. You don’t see a single familiar face among them – no bright colors of gaudy godtier pajamas, no repeating faces in slightly different iterations, not even a single gray-skinned troll. You can’t make out their eyes from up here, but you already know what you’d see. They aren’t ghosts.
You’re not in a dream bubble.
You stand at the window, unable to look away. Your eyes dart from humans, to cars, to buildings, studying everything. You watch people move, trying to find and memorize the pattern so it will make sense, so you can predict it, so you can control it – or at least plan around it. You stand at the window, and you can’t move.
The sun goes down.
Sparks of pink lighting zip and pop along your hands, squeezed tight into shaking fists. You slowly, steadily uncurl your fingers and spread them out, again and again.
You might be just a little bit stressed the fuck out right now.
But being scared shitless like a little kid isn’t going to fix this.
You need to think.
You’re not dead. You’re not in a dream bubble. So where the fuck are you? And more importantly, how do you get out?
Behind you, a door unlocks.
You hear footsteps in the quiet.
In the reflection of your shades, you see a figure that looks exactly like you.
==> Dirk: Be the other guy