crab: (25 █ no matter how)
[personal profile] crab
[ the feed opens to a view of the night sky. it's mostly clear, and would be an unremarkable view of the stars, if not for the... streaks of light raining down from above. it looks like a meteor shower might, but closer.

the camera view swivels to take in remains of the moon, and then down, to take in the smoking, twisted heap of sheet metal that was once a familiar shed.

So. Anyone who was hoping the latest series of catastrophes had run its course should probably step outside and check out the flaming death from above, and then step right the fuck back inside before said death from above chooses you as its next hapless target, though it may not do you much good in the long run, regardless. I guess some things are a universal constant.

[ the camera swivels again, to take in the tired face of karkat vantas. ]

I don't think this is going to resolve itself. Or at least, going by the fact that as far as I'm aware we don't have any reality warping video games to facilitate an escape, I don't think any of us are going to live to see its resolution.

[ once again, the view pans back up to the night sky. ]

Welcome to the Apocalypse, mark II, motherfuckers. It was awful knowing you.
crab: (Default)
[personal profile] crab
[ the feed clicks on to show one karkat vantas, who appears to be sitting somewhere fairly high up. it’s a stone wall, about five or six feet tall. he looks tired. his shoulders are slumped, brows knitted slightly.

more immediately noticeable than any of that, though, is the fact that he has aged about two years in the span of a few weeks.

while before, with his rounded, childish features and small, slight stature he couldn’t have looked much older than twelve, now, his face is thinner, more elongated, his jaw squarer. while his frame remains slight and bony, his shoulders and chest have begun to broaden. he has the awkward look of someone who’s just been through a sudden, rapid growth spurt, unused to the new lengths of his limbs and size of his body. he’s grown at least five inches taller. his eyes have gone from flat slate to a dull, greyish pink.

when he speaks, his voice has dropped in pitch.

Where I come from, there’s something called the Alpha Timeline. [ the quiet, rhythmic sound of the back of his heel tapping against the wall punctuates his words. ] It consists of nine parts an unbelievably complicated mess of time loops, predestination and cosmic destiny, and one part slow descent into clinical madness. The Alpha Timeline is everything.

Doomed timelines are what happen if you try to deviate from the Alpha Timeline. If you fuck with the way things are supposed to happen, the way paradox space wanted things to go, if you mess up a time loop, or if you just happen to make some arbitrary mistake that ultimately ruins everything.

[ tap, tap, tap. his faint scowl deepens. ]

Everyone in a doomed timeline is slated to die. But they don’t cease to exist. They go on “living” as ghosts in the dream bubbles, patchwork landscapes made of the memories of the dreaming and dead who inhabit them, with eerie white eyes and way too much time on their hands. They’re dead, but they’re you. They’re your friends. Creepy replicas from alternate futures that could have just as easily been yours. That were yours, in some aborted offshoot of reality.

[ the tapping stops. he bites his lip. ]

We always assume the people here who leave and come back without remembering their time here are the same ones. That time stops back home, that you have no recollection of ever being here when you go. The evidence all points to it. I guess three years meandering through a limitless abyss with a bunch of dead people and monster squids for company made me start to think about the alternative, though. That the people who don’t remember aren’t the same ones that left. Or at least, aren’t from the same timeline. That the ones who are here aren’t supposed to be. That we’re doomed.

I don’t know. [ he runs a hand through his hair, still the same unholy mess it was when he was ported out. it hangs to his shoulders now. ] It’s unlikely that time works the same way in all other realities, and we already know Lachesis can manipulate our memories and pull us from any point in our personal timeline she feels like. It wouldn’t be much of a big deal to wipe our memories and send us back to the exact point we came from.

But the thing meeting all those alternate selves made me think about was, how do you even define your identity? The only thing that differentiated all those dead Karkats and Nepetas and Eridans from each other were their memories, the things that went differently for them. Our being here makes us different people than the ones we were back home. We are alternates, copies of our alpha selves, but our existence has an expiration date. When Lachesis wipes our memories and sends us back, that identity is obliterated. If we were doomed, though, we’d still exist. For boring, endless eternity. Like, how do you even occupy yourself all that time? What do ghosts even do with themselves to pass the millennia?

Kind of a tough call, which is worse.

[ he shrugs, and starts to move, like he’s thinking about getting down off the wall. ]

I think I just-- [ but whatever he thinks is cut off. not paying attention to what he’s doing, he loses his balance, drops his communicator. there’s a blur of motion as it falls, karkat’s shout, the clatter of the communicator and the thud of his body against the sidewalk, and the feed cuts out. ]
crab: (it's not skyrim you fucking moron)
[personal profile] crab

[ and the feed switches to video. the camera is turned away from karkat, and focuses on what appears to be a large, ordinary sheet-metal garden shed. when karkat speaks, he sounds extraordinarily exasperated. ]

Who wants a shed full of dead bodies? Body parts include: severed heads, severed limbs, various torsos. From what I remember most of them are beheaded, but there are some still intact. Also, there is at least one ripped off Skrull face. I'm pretty sure they're all preserved, though I don't really care to go in there and verify it. I know there are some sick fucks on this thing somewhere, so put your astounding mental illnesses to good use for once in your miserable unremarkable lives and help an imPort in need out, here.

Take them. Take the whole fucking shed. Get rid of it.
crab: (06 █ smeared the refuge)
[personal profile] crab
[ the video feed clicks on to show one karkat vantas. clearly, he has found something new to bitch about and-- wait.

his eyes; his sclera had always been yellow, but now that yellow has spread to his iris and pupil, making his gaze appear flat and unseeing. a glow emanates from them both. the cancer symbol on his shirt is a bright candy red, and around his neck is a (lumpy, handmade) red and grey scarf, given to him by nill.

another difference is in the way he holds himself; his expression. it's not angry. it's not aggressive, or annoyed, or falsely arrogant. it's not even tense. he just looks sad. his tone is different, too -- rather than refuse to moderate his volume, the shadow is soft spoken, even gentle, when it talks.

It's really incredible, the lengths I go to trying to pretend I'm not a worthless spinal crevice dwelling smear of decaying fecal matter. I won't even use video, because I don't want any of you perceptive pains in the nook reading my expressions and making it harder for me to bullshit you into thinking I'm a legitimate badass with an ego the size of the Green Sun who will totally fuck you up, like, not even bluffing. [ a snort. ] Honestly, how many of you ever actually believed in my pathetic tough guy charade, or thought it was anything above the product of crippling neurosis and insecurity?

[ karkat's shadow rolls a shrug, and chuckles; the sound is bitter, empty. he then switches to text. ]

bright red courier )

[ and switching back to video. ]

I hate myself so much, there isn't any left for anyone else! I'm just, totally burnt out on it. Where my emotional scope for hatred once was is now a razed, barren landscape from which nothing will ever again grow. I'm broken. My blood isn't the only thing that makes me a freak. My entire being is twisted. I'm like this ever expanding nebula of unresolved feelings and problems in the wake of the catastrophic supernova that was the day I decided to grace paradox space with my repulsive existence.

[ the shadow sighs, head falling forward. it sounds exaggeratedly upset -- almost on the verge of tears. ]

And I tried to kid myself, thinking I wanted to be a threshecutioner? Yeah, what a load of bullshit. As if I could ever execute someone in cold blood? Seriously? Hahaha, no way. I'm too much of a miserable, bleeding vascular pump for that. I just wanted to fit in. I try so hard to be normal, to make up for my mutation, to command everyone's awe and admiration. I mean, what am I even worth without other people's validation? I'm nothing. I'm no one. I didn't fit in on Alternia, I can't fit in on Earth, I don't belong here, I don't belong anywhere because I'm an aberration who ruins everything he touches, who was doomed to be a screw-up from birth. There was nothing I could ever have done to stop it. It was always meant to be that way. How many of my actions, or thoughts, or feelings are even authentically mine, and how many are just the product of what fate thinks should happen? Where’s the meaning in anything you do, if it was never yours? It isn’t there. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. I don’t matter.

I'm not a leader, or a hero, or a troll, or even human, though I would have been better off as the latter. I'm just a frightened little kid.

[ after a few beats, he adds, sheepishly: ] Oh, uh, Ruka? You probably don't want to go home, by the way. Just throwing that out there. Anyone who's looking for a fight can, though, I guess. I might be a passive, quivering sop, but the rest of me isn't cognizant enough to be hampered by my astonishing brain problems. Try not to die, though. I will probably cry, and it will probably be repugnant and embarrassing for all who have to pay witness.
crab: (he flails around like a fucking idiot)
[personal profile] crab
[ look who's back and louder than ever, and freaking out as hard as he's got it in him to do. there is already a plain note of hysteria in his voice when he starts, and it only gets worse as he goes on. ]

Hey, paging all of you revolting jackasses with the gumption to call yourselves my friends!

What the fuck is wrong with you?

Maybe if I ask the question loudly and vehemently enough an answer might be forthcoming for once! Maybe if I ask hard enough, the question will end up slightly less unanswerable. I'll tell you what's wrong with you. You're fucking depraved is what's wrong! No. Depraved does not even begin to cover it. You're a perverse clamoring gaggle of lascivious shitnuggets conducting an eternal sick fuckery jamboree! Everyone's invited, and the party never ends, no matter how much you weep and rock backwards and forwards in a secluded corner wishing for it to! It is an infinite asshole rumpus of flying pails and miscellaneous dead pals and awful letters and corpse theft and suicidal plans and people jamming their tongues down each other's protein chutes with reckless abandon!

I couldn't dream up a better time if I tried! And I am trying! I am attempting to create for myself an imaginary scenario where none of this took place! A timeline in which John motherfucking Egbert didn't bludgeon me in the face with a bucket, a timeline in which my friends are not enormous throbbing douchenozzles who can't keep their lips to themselves, a timeline in which half of those douchenozzles aren't cadavers having unspeakable things done to them by my asswad of a moirail! A timeline where corpse parties are stricken from the topic of discussion on account of being fucking retarded, a timeline where the plans we concoct are not all but suicidal, a timeline where I don't have to spend a sweep and a half on a meteor drifting through the Furthest Ring with this flock of psychopaths and innumerable malevolent tentacle squid gods! And above all, a timeline in which JOHN MOTHERFUCKING EGBERT DIDN'T BLUDGEON ME IN THE FACE WITH A FUCKING PAIL! You better be running, you bucktoothed degenerate bastard, I know you're listening to this and you better be fleeing for the fucking hills--

[ he's prevented from further elaboration by an attack of hyperventilation, having freaked the fuck out a little too hard. the sound of wheezing and the occasional valiant attempt at continuing his rant is all that can be heard for a few more moments before he concedes defeat and cuts the feed. ]
crab: (save your applause)
[personal profile] crab
[ it is rare for karkat to use video without due reason, but the reason for it should be fairly clear with what the feed is showing. gone is the round, grumpy baby-face. in its place is something more square -- rounded contours a little sharper, puppy fat having melted away. his horns are about half an inch longer, his carnivorus looking overbite is about five times worse, and his eyes are a freakishly vibrant candy red. he is wearing what looks to be a plain dark purple shirt that had been meant for gamzee and is clearly several sizes too large for him.

despite all this, however, he doesn't look as angry as his younger counterpart may have been under these circumstances -- his expression is better described as perplexed. he clears his throat. his voice is actually pretty calm, though there is still a note of irritation in it.

Okay, I'm going to spare you all the "why is this happening" and "what's going on" and "holy shit I aged an arbitrary number of sweeps forwards or backwards in my sleep, better alert the masses of this stunning and unexpected occurrence despite the fact that half of them appear to be suffering the exact same ailment!" bullshit, I think that aspect of this latest collective citywide clusterfuck has been adequately covered, thanks, but I do have a question. Are there any human stores that sell clothes that will fit my thousand foot tall moirail? Shirts we can yank over his freakishly enormous horns without tearing them to shreds would be fantastic too.

[ there's a pause. ]

Uh. Also, is there anything that isn't sunglasses someone could hypothetically use to conceal their eye color?
crab: (that i'd be gone before i knew your name)
[personal profile] crab
[ there's a long silence when the feed begins, and the sound of several false starts. after a few minutes, this is all that's said, dully: ]

Vriska Serket is dead.

[ the sound of a deep, shuddering breath. ]

What the fuck happened yesterday? I mean, I've bore witness to plenty of messed up, living nightmare shit before, it's not like I can't take it, I can totally deal, but that-- [ his voice cracks. ] ... I don't want to see anything like that ever again.

[ another pause. and quietly: ]

She died heroically.

[ and the feed cuts. ]
crab: (i'm so touched by your goodness)
[personal profile] crab
[ the communicator turns on to the sound of what should be familiar honking to a great deal of the network. karkat curses audibly, there's the sound of rushing footsteps, then a clatter and the sound of something crashing; karkat shouts in surprise, and someone laughs.

then silence.

after several beats, karkat begins to speak, sounding beleaguered and exasperated.

I really hate to do this, but I've exhausted all quantifiable options and solutions I've been able to concoct on my own. This may be one of the worst memos I have ever had to open, and considering my history with memos, that isn't a trivial matter.

[ more honking. ] --Ugh. Fuck you! Go swan dive into the load gaper, you awful soda gargling douche! [ shouted in the direction of the culprit, away from the comm. ]


How do you force someone capable of pseudo teleportation to put pants on? I made the grievous mistake of introducing someone to underwear, and now they refuse to wear anything but.
crab: (rejoice the bed you sleep in is burning)
[personal profile] crab
So is everyone quite done singing and or rioting like a bunch of frothing lunatics? Have those particular brands of batshit crazefuckery petered out? I'm not even going to bother asking, I'm jotting it down to the grave collective mental handicap this place is afflicted with. What fresh hell are we preoccupied with now? Some retarded human schoolhive tradition where everyone gets together and dances for pretty much no reason whatsoever. "Prom". Great! Sounds like a blast.

Except it's lame and stupid, much like everything you fuckwits seem to perpetrate. What is even the point of that?
crab: (things could be different)
[personal profile] crab
Calling all life forms with a capability for intelligent thought and a desire to make themselves not useless smears on the ass end of the universe: tell me about these "powers" we're all supposed to have. Apparently, we're all saddled with them the moment we are dimension-napped into this reality, but how do you go about discovering what they are?
crab: (it's embarrassing to need someone)
[personal profile] crab
[ the video clicks on, and the face it captures is not a happy one. it is a grey face, topped with hair that has not seen the comforting touch of a brush in a heinously long time. on his head there are two, nubby little yellow horns. he has a horrendous overbite with carnivorous looking teeth. the large eyes of a nocturnal creature, yellow sclera, grey pupils, both underscored with grave ditches that suggest he has not slept for a long, long time. cape and cowl, ladies, gents, and unspecified, meet karkat vantas, aged six sweeps, thirteen earth years.

at the moment when the video starts he is breathing quickly and shakily, muttering a steady stream of profanity. his eyes are huge, wide with apparent panic, shoulders bunched, jaw set- he is like tension personified. on his face are streaks of pale pink, though he is hurriedly scrubbing them away with the back of a sleeve, before beginning. loudly. also he may be trying to puff himself up a bit. he is definitely trying not to look scared out of his mind.

Attention douchebags!

[ charmer. ]

I don't know what in pusblasted hell just happened, but I'm calling out all semi-intelligent excuses for sentience receiving this message right now to answer a question.

Where. The. Assnabbing. Fuck. Am I?!

One minute I'm at an undestroyed, unneutralized Green Sun opening my grief ducts over the pile of feculent yellow mush that used to be my best friend, then I'm being accosted by some piece of shit computer for my name and alias. If anyone from my team got warped here with me and can see this then report to me right now with as little bullshit as possible, I am not in the mood, I am in the negatives of what would have been the mood, okay.


capeandcowl: (Default)

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