clean-bubbles-aka-bubbles

[clean-bubbles-aka-bubbles]

(i may or may not write it from the book since I do not have the book itself)

[clean-bubbles-aka-bubbles]

₊❏❜ ⋮[ 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕃𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕤𝕥 𝕄𝕖𝕞𝕓𝕖𝕣 ]⌒

The grass was a lush, velvety carpet beneath them, each blade swaying lightly in the gentle breeze, producing a soft whisper that seemed to dance with the wind. The sky above stretched out like an endless ocean, a brilliant canvas painted in hues of azure, adorned with slow-moving clouds that drifted lazily, casting shifting shadows on the ground.0

(Y/n) lay nestled comfortably between their parents, their small frame enveloped in the warm embrace of their mother's side, feeling the rhythmic rise and fall of her breath. Their father's sturdy arm reached across the grassy expanse to rest gently on their shoulder, a silent affirmation of love and safety.

The air was vibrant with the symphony of nature, filled with the cheerful chirps of birds and the soft hum of bees, lazily floating from flower to delicate flower, as the world burst into bloom all around them. They watched the clouds float by like majestic ships sailing across a cerulean sea.

It was peaceful... too peaceful.

"Mom, Dad... What do you think dying feels like?" (Y/n)'s voice punctured the tranquility, soft and inquisitive. It slipped into the air like a pebble tossed into still water, rippling gently.

Their parents turned to look at them, surprise etched softly on their faces. Not panic. Not alarm. Just the solemn sorrow that arose when profound questions like these surfaced.

Their mother stroked a hand tenderly through (Y/n)'s hair, her touch soothing. "Sweetheart..."

Their father inhaled deeply, his gaze fixed on the vast expanse of sky. "Well... I think it starts like this," he began, his voice thoughtful. "Quiet. The wind slows down. The sounds fade. Everything... softens."

Their mother continued, her tone warm yet delicate, as if handling a fragile truth. "And then it gets dark--not scary dark, just... peaceful. Like a big blanket that wraps around you. No more pain, no more noise. Just calm. And then... "

Her hand gently squeezed (Y/n)'s, anchoring them in the moment.

"...A light. Something bright. Like the sun rising just for you."

(Y/n) blinked up at the sky once more. The clouds shifted, stretched, and transformed in a mesmerizing display. Their fingers curled into the grass, but the vibrant picture around them began to fade. The sun broke through the clouds, casting a warm, golden glow-and then-

Everything went black.

Static. Silence. Nothing.

*...Whirrrr!*

The TV Head rebooted slowly, its screen flickering to life, casting an eerie glow in the dimly lit room. At first, it lay on the floor, contorted and folded at awkward angles like a forgotten puppet discarded after a long show. The walls around it groaned like ancient trees in a ghostly forest. A heavy scent of polished wood permeated the air, mingling with the mustiness of neglect. As their lenses realigned from the blurry depths of disorientation, they gradually sat up, taking stock of their surroundings.

They found themselves ensconced in a long-abandoned vintage guest room, the wood-paneled walls steeped in history and layered with dust, whispering tales of visitors long forgotten. A faded checkerboard rug, worn and fraying at the edges, lay beneath them, a stark but charming contrast to the somber decor.

The air was thick with the pungent aromas of aged meat-a memory of culinary days gone by-and floor polish, resonating with artificial cleanliness in the midst of decay. Somewhere nearby, a fly buzzed, its relentless drone a reminder of the life teetering on the edge of rot. Then came another scent-metallic and reminiscent of something slightly decayed, creeping into their awareness like an unwelcome guest. . . .

*CLICK! Creaak...!* . . .

The door creaked open.

Ken "The Butcher" stepped in, wiping a massive, bloodied knife with a towel that had already seen better days. Some goopy black fluid-probably from whatever zombie-fly thing he'd been carving up-stained his apron.

"You're up," he said simply.

He strode over, determination in his gait, and grasped TV Head's outstretched hand, attempting to lift them up with a casual confidence. However, the challenge was apparent; TV Head loomed too tall for the cramped ceiling above.

With a series of smooth, mechanical movements, their legs unfolded first, knees popping into place like well-oiled hinges, then extending a long torso, accompanied by arms that stretched like elastic bands. As their unique, TV-shaped head made contact with the ceiling, it resulted in a dull thud that echoed lightly in the small space.

Ken let out a grunt, the sound laced with amusement. "Gonna have to crouch, tall guy."

The tour began.

Ken was not much of a talker, but he was practical-pointing out the meat room ("Don't touch anything unless you want to lose a finger"), the fridge ("Undead parts go in the left bin"), the counter ("We serve fresh, not flailing"), and the staff quarters ("You'll probably have to crouch to get in anywhere"). Each location was cramped compared to TV Head's towering build, and each turn left them bumping against doorframes or ducking under dangling hooks.

TV Head moved cautiously, trying to avoid colliding with the detritus of a world long abandoned. Their screen flickered intermittently, jagged lines of static dancing across the surface whenever something piqued their curiosity, distorting the reflections they cast upon the ground.

As they glided past the cracked doors, the atmosphere grew undeniably fraught behind the counters.

Zombies sat on barrels and around tables, their gnarled fingers brushing against the remnants of consumer goods. Most bore a haunting resemblance to humanity-skin in various states of decomposition, some with grotesquely elongated limbs or eyeballs that oozed a murky fluid. One particularly eccentric being sported two heads, each adorned with a pair of dark sunglasses that sat askew on their rotting faces.

When their sight descended upon TV Head, the world fell silent, as if time itself ceased to exist.

Gasps. Muffled shrieks.

Whispers followed.

"What is that?" "Is it watching me?" "Why is it glowing like that?" "I-I think it just judged me!"

A ragged few zombies clutched their decayed chests, their expressions twisted in a grotesque parody of sorrow, while others bowed their heads, skin shriveled and dull, as if awaiting divine retribution. One particularly frantic undead creature burst from the door, its voice a haunting wail, crying out about being unworthy, echoing off the walls of the dimly lit space.

TV Head remained eerily still. The screen on their metallic head emitted a soft, ethereal blue glow, casting a ghostly hue on their surroundings, but their "eyes"-those strange, ever-watching lights-held a fixed gaze on the zombies, unmoving in their vigil.

"...TV Head?" Mel's voice broke the heavy silence, a hint of urgency lacing her tone.

She emerged from behind the counter, her movements fluid and confident as she waved them over. "C'mon. This way," she urged, her eyes darting nervously toward the throng.

With a slow and awkward grace, TV Head turned, their limbs unfolding like a metal origami as they backed away from the paralyzed horde of rotting customers. They trailed behind Mel down another shadowy corridor, retreating from the chaos, away from the penetrating stares filled with vacant hunger.

As they slipped away, a few brave zombies mustered the courage to peek around corners, their hollow eyes filled with a flicker of curiosity.

"...It's like Heaven's receptionist or somethin'," one muttered, its voice a rasping whisper that drifted off into the silence.

TV Head remained silent.

Yet somewhere, deep within the circuitry of their mind, the faint echoes of sunlight filtering through the clouds and the soft, nurturing voices of their parents lingered-just softly enough to keep the warmth alive within their metallic heart.

The tour ended quietly, like the soft click of a door closing behind you.

Ken had led TV Head back to the guest room, their towering figure forced to crouch once again beneath the low ceiling. The wooden floor creaked with every step as Ken opened the door, gestured them inside, then turned away without a word.

"Stay here," was all he muttered.

Then he was gone.

Ken made his way to the far end of the building, gripping a bloodied hook in one hand. He reached the freezer, yanked open the door, and disappeared inside. Once the thick steel sealed behind him, silence blanketed the frigid room.

Inside were the rest of the Smiling Dead.

Breadhead, adjusting his oven-mitt-like gloves, beamed the moment Ken mentioned the name. "TV Head? TV Head! It's like destiny! Destiny, I tell you! Breadhead and TV Head! The heads have aligned!" he declared, throwing his arms up like he was conducting an orchestra of bagels.

Mud leaned back, arms crossed, steam rising faintly off his cracked, muddy flesh. "That thing... It's too clean. Too polished. It could've been a sleeper weapon from the Virtue Corporation. For all we know, it's been watching us the entire time."

Mel rolled her eyes. "C'mon. Look at them! They waved at a customer like they were handing out balloons. We could use someone like that! Besides, they'd be so good at cleaning up guts and weird sludge trails."

"I say we keep an eye on 'em," Ken finally grunted, placing his hook down on a slab of frozen meat. "They stay. But if anything goes wrong... I'm chopping the screen off first."

Mel snorted. "Overprotective much?"

"Also," Ken added, "they're keeping an eye on you too."

Mel's jaw dropped. "What?"

Ken just shrugged.

Back in the shadowy guest room, TV Head remained blissfully oblivious to the cold-hearted negotiations unfolding in the dimly lit freezer.

Instead, they were focused on opening the squeaky drawers, each creaking sound echoing in the silence.

Most drawers were stuffed with dust-coated papers, yellowed by age, a few rusted paperclips, and some ominous half-burnt notes that whispered unsettling secrets about "brain freshness retention." One particularly crooked drawer revealed a crumpled flyer, faded and wrinkled, for a "Haunted Butcher Discount Sale," proudly displaying a coupon long expired in 1962.

TV Head tilted their head, the screen flickering momentarily as static fuzzed and danced across the surface.

Curiosity bubbled up again within the confines of their mechanical body.

Silently, they glided toward the door, their movements fluid yet deliberate.

Then, past the long, dimly lit hallway, the air was heavy with an eerie stillness.

And then... out into the back courtyard. They stepped into the open space that wound around to the front entrance, a desolate plaza where undead customers milled about like rotting pigeons forgotten amidst the decay of time.

Suddenly, someone glanced up from their mindless wandering. Then another followed. Soon, all of them turned their hollow gazes upon TV Head.

TV Head blinked, or rather, the two soft glowing dots on their screen pulsed rhythmically, like a heartbeat defying the stillness.

Raising a hand, they offered a gentle wave, a gesture as fragile as the moment itself.

A hush fell over the crowd, the air thick with anticipation.

Then someone let out a piercing scream, shattering the silence. "THE CELESTIAL ENFORCER'S HERE TO TAKE OUR SOULS!"

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*THUNK!!*

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A kitchen knife whirled through the air. It thunked solidly into TV Head's metal chest, embedding itself handle-first.

TV Head looked down at the knife.

Then up at the zombies.

Without a word, they turned around and walked away slowly, knife still jutting out of their chest.

The customers parted like the Red Sea.

Back in the dimly lit guest room, TV Head carefully reached up, gripped the knife by the cold, metallic handle, and pulled it free. A soft, almost mechanical whirring noise followed as the blade disengaged with a faint spark, illuminating the otherwise shadowed space. They inspected the wound on their surface-a minor injury with a few wires nicked and one panel slightly buckled, as if they had just encountered a brief struggle.

Sitting quietly on the edge of the unmade bed, they retrieved a small, precise set of tools from their thigh compartment, the metallic clinks echoing softly in the stillness. With the meticulous care of a skilled surgeon, they patched themselves up, a few sparks flying out into the air, a wire twisted here, a connection secured there. All was done in a matter of moments, leaving their exterior looking a bit more polished.

Finally, standing up with a soft creak of metal joints, they left the room again. This time, they moved with an almost silent grace, each step calculated and deliberate. Not to avoid the people, but to ensure they wouldn't scare them.

They wandered toward the supply room, opening boxes and poking at strange jars of preserved organs floating in glowing liquid. One had an eyeball that blinked when shaken.

Fascinating.

Meanwhile, back in the chilled depths of the freezer, the Smiling Dead convened, the air around them thick with anticipation.

"They'll stay," Ken confirmed, his posture firm as he folded his arms protectively, a decisive look etched across his face. "Janitor and night watch. No killing unless provoked. And we test them."

"If they're with the Virtue Corp?" Mud pressed, his brow furrowed with concern, eyes darting around as if expecting an ambush from unseen adversaries.

"Then they're spare parts."

Breadhead clapped excitedly, a grotesque grin spreading across his face. "Yay! We're gonna match! I wonder if they bake--wait, can they bake?!" His voice bubbled with enthusiasm, almost childlike in its innocence.

"And," Ken added, turning to Mel with a knowing look that suggested he was aware of her internal conflict, "they're watching you too."

Mel grumbled under her breath, her voice low and filled with barely contained frustration, muttering something about betrayal and trust as her fists tightened.

But secretly... she was kind of okay with it.

Kind of.

Maybe.

A little.

"Fine," she said, crossing her arms in defeat, her lips pressed together in a thin line. "But if they snitch on me, I'm putting glitter in their vents." A smirk attempted to break through her annoyance, the absurdity of her threat almost lightening the mood.

From the shadows of the butcher shop, TV Head continued exploring, oblivious to the tension, the bizarre charm of its presence casting an odd light on the grim environment.

And the screen on their face quietly displayed a blue sky and drifting clouds, a stark contrast to the cold reality around them.

Like a memory, haunting yet beautiful.

Now that everything was more or less settled-no fights, no flames, no explosions (yet)-Ken took it upon himself to officially introduce TV Head to their new role.

The butcher stood by the cracked supply closet door, arms crossed and an unamused expression etched across his face, as he gestured toward a weathered bucket and an ancient broom that had definitely seen better days.

"Alright, TV Head. This is your job now. You clean this place and keep watch at night. Think you can handle that?" TV Head tilted their head, soft static crackling like distant thunder on their screen.

Mel leaned casually against a mop, one boot propped against the wall, exuding an air of nonchalance. "Don't worry. I'll show you the ropes. Literally-those mops have ropes. Don't strangle yourself with them."

TV Head reached out eagerly for the mop. The mop handle creaked ominously under their grip pressure, a precursor of what was to come.

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*SNAP.*

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The handle broke clean in half with a sharp crack, sending a jolt of surprise through the room. Everyone stared at the splintered stick hanging limply in TV Head's metallic grip, disbelief etched on their faces.

"...Okay, so maybe go a little gentler," Mel offered with a grimace, extending a backup mop toward the struggling figure.

TV Head tried again, determination flashing in their screen-eyes.

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*SNAP.*

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Ken facepalmed, the sound echoing the exasperation of everyone present.

"Good thing we hoard cleaning supplies," Breadhead chimed in cheerfully from a nearby shelf, head poking out between jars of pickled spleens.

Mel grabbed a sturdier broom from the stash of spare supplies they kept around (mostly because Breadhead had a habit of melting them in ovens) and handed it to TV Head like she was knighting them. "Okay, metal bean. Let me show you how to sweep without turning the place into a sawmill."

The towering figure of TV Head, hunched awkwardly beneath the weight of its oversized monitor-like head, attempted the task once more. The broom bristles scraped gently against the warped, uneven tiles of the floor, creating a soft, almost melancholic sound. For a brief moment, their screen flashed a cheerful little smiley face, a stark contrast to the bizarre surroundings.

Mel chuckled, the sound light and easy. "Hey, not bad. Just keep that up and don't sweep a customer by accident."

TV Head nodded in acknowledgment, their bulbous head making a light clonk against a low ceiling beam with a dull thud.

They paused, taking a moment to gather themselves, before crouching down with an ungainly grace. Much better.

Later, after cleaning duties were tackled (and a small collection of broken tools had fallen victim to the learning curve), it was time for the second half of the job: guard duty.

Ken stood before them, explaining the basics with a serious demeanor: "Don't let in creeps. Don't let out creeps. Don't kill customers unless they're actively trying to destroy this place first. And keep your head on straight."

In response, TV Head saluted, raising their hand in a comical yet endearing gesture.

Unfortunately, their awkward movement resulted in their hand crashing into their own screen, producing a small but resonant bonk that echoed down the otherwise silent hallway.

Yet, despite the clumsy nature of their design, TV Head proved to be... surprisingly efficient. Despite their cumbersome size and awkward shape, they moved through the shadows with an eerie silence. Observant and persistent, they seemed to take in every detail around them.

The real issue, however, lay with the customers. Most of the undead who drifted or shuffled into the shop were accustomed to grotesque horrors of various sorts, but not to a tall, silent robot stationed stiffly in the corner like a piece of modern art unearthed from a scrapyard exhibit.

Determined to ease any tension, TV Head decided to adopt a less intimidating stance. They activated "Idle Mode."

To an outside observer, they appeared to be completely switched off-slumped slightly, the bright lights dimmed, and their long limbs neatly folded in a semblance of rest. They became a forgotten sculpture hidden away near the display case filled with grotesque, worm-filled eyeballs.

It worked.

Until a customer got too curious.

"Whoa," muttered a half-melted ghoul, its features twisted and grotesque, as it poked curiously at TV Head's arm. "Who left this here? It's like a... museum piece. Or some art protest."

Suddenly, the screen flickered to life, cutting through the darkness. Two glowing blue dots illuminated the ghoul's face, casting an eerie glow.

"I am the security unit of the place," TV Head said, its voice calm and robotic, echoing in the silence. "I am currently in sleep mode. Please refrain from touching the art."

The ghoul's reaction was instantaneous-a piercing scream shattered the stillness, and somewhere in the chaotic confusion, a glass jar crashed to the ground.

Mud, perched at a distance, nearly collapsed in laughter, tears forming from the sheer absurdity of it all.

Every time a customer inadvertently made the same mistake, TV Head would calmly correct them, maintaining its composure. Each time, someone would sprint away, shrieking or dropping their undead smoothie in despair.

TV Head remained oblivious to the comedy of the situation but could sense the escalating amusement.

Mud began to keep score, marking each mishap as if it were a sporting event.

Mel awarded them a shiny gold star sticker for every accidental scare, a tangible reminder of their bizarre encounters.

And amidst the confusion, chaos, and crooked ceiling beams that seemed like remnants of a lost world, TV Head's screen displayed a gentle pixelated smile as it crouched back into its corner, its eyes gradually dimming.

Sleep mode: engaged.

Security: active.

Satisfaction: immeasurable.

A couple of weeks passed, and TV Head had transformed into a peculiar fixture within the chaotic realm of the Smiling Dead. No longer merely a guest or a fleeting curiosity, they had woven themselves into the very fabric of the crew-an eclectic collective of oddities and misfits. Standing tall and imposing, with their screen face glowing softly, TV Head was a curious blend of impeccable timing and an almost endearing, albeit bewildered, sense of cluelessness. Amongst the gory memorabilia and grimy eccentricities that characterized the crew, they shimmered like a beacon of gentleness.

TV Head had formed a particularly close bond with Mel, drawn to her aura in a way they couldn't quite articulate-there was an inexplicable familiarity in her warmth that no lines of code or data could ever quantify. Unlike the others, she radiated a softness, a completeness that felt almost ethereal.

Her skin was light blue and unmarked, untouched by the world's wear; she laughed easily, a melodic sound that floated through the air like a gentle breeze. Her limbs moved gracefully, as though they were the last remnant of a time when she had fully embraced her humanity.

TV Head reveled in being near her, finding solace in her presence.

Meanwhile, Breadhead had embraced his role as their unofficial piano tutor with great enthusiasm. Bursting with pride at having another "head" in the house, he was relentless in his quest to bond through the universal language of music.

However, TV Head's attempts to play were a comical struggle; their lanky, long yet heavy hands often threatened to snap the piano keys as they navigated the simplest melodies. Breadhead remained unfazed, a twinkle in his eye as he reassured, "All part of the learning process," while retrieving his repair kit for what felt like the hundredth time.

On the other hand, Ken had devised different plans for TV Head, embodying his usual unpredictable nature. Recognizing potential (and the need for an extra pair of durable hands), he promoted them up the ranks.

First, they became the dishwasher (along with Jack)-an arduous task that entailed scrubbing every dish by hand, as in the haunted establishment of the Smiling Dead, the concept of a dishwasher was more myth than machine. Next, they graduated to an assistant busboy (with Romeo) role, and eventually, they found themselves as part-time server (along with Cathy and Syd), juggling multiple responsibilities.

TV Head accepted each new role with a static cheer and a nod, even as concerned glances flitted among the others.

"They're gonna short-circuit," Mud muttered, voicing the collective unease.

"They don't even eat, Ken," Mel added, her gesture pointing toward TV Head's chaotic attempt to balance four trays, mop the floor, and respond to a customer's inquiry all in a single frantic motion.

That's when Ken discovered the hidden switch.

A little latch, ingeniously concealed at the base of TV Head's spine, bore a label that simply read: M-MODE.

With a mix of trepidation and curiosity, he flipped it.

A cacophony erupted- an unholy sound akin to thirty toolboxes simultaneously crashing to the floor echoed through the room.

TV Head sprang upright, limbs retracting and swiftly transforming into mechanical appendages, each equipped with cleaning tools designed for multi-faceted tasks: a tray, a sponge, a scrubber, and-at one point-a vacuum hose that comically began devouring dust off a wall painting.

"Whoa!" Breadhead yelped, instinctively ducking for cover from the whirlwind of activity.

Now fully engaged in Multi-Task Mode, TV Head whirled around their guest room like a possessed automaton, executing cleaning tasks ruthlessly. The floor sparkled, the ceiling gleamed, and somehow, the room emanated a fresh, clean fragrance that felt almost supernatural.

It took Ken a painstaking hour to decipher how to turn it off. After several attempts, he finally regained some semblance of control over the unruly whirlwind that was TV Head.

One ordinary day, in a small, dimly lit pantry filled with the lingering scents of spices and odd ingredients, TV Head diligently assisted Mel in reorganizing the cluttered shelves of preserved goods and bizarre culinary items.

They carefully passed her a jar encased in a thick layer of dust, containing what appeared to be marinated spider legs glistening oddly under the flickering light. Mel's gaze lingered on it as she hesitated, her voice barely above a whisper, as if she were delving into a fragile memory:

"Hey, do you remember anything from... before?"

TV Head paused, their metallic exterior tense, as static hummed softly in their chest. They stared at Mel, the screen on their head flickering with searching pixels, a kaleidoscope of colors revealing fragments of lost memories.

"...I don't think I do."

Their voice was softer than usual, almost fragile in the quiet room.

"I remember... lights. Maybe. Or maybe that's a dream."

They tilted their head in contemplation, the weight of their words hanging in the air, distracted by fleeting thoughts. In the process, they inadvertently bumped into the shelf, setting off a chain reaction.

One of the glass jars teetered precariously, wobbling as if in slow motion before it plunged toward the floor. Time stretched as it bounced off another jar, hit the edge of the shelf, and-

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*Clonk.*

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Right on Mel's face.

She staggered back, catching the jar before it shattered, but the damage had been done. A line of black blood oozed from her nose, trailing down to her lip.

TV Head froze.

That blood... wasn't like the others.

The undead bled purple.

TV Head's internal database flickered.

Something didn't match.

Before they could process, Ken burst in, saw Mel bleeding-

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*CLANK!*

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-and tackled TV Head with a roar, his cleaver drawn.

"TRAITOR!"

TV Head panicked.

Their screen flashed to white.

Two dark, x-shaped pupils blinked into existence-burning red, jagged, dangerous.

"Annihilate Mode: ENGAGED."

Blades extended. Guns clicked out of compartments. A buzzsaw spun into life with a shrill whir. Energy hummed in their limbs. The guest room ceiling cracked.

Ken raised his cleaver.

Mel, nose still bleeding, shoved between them.

"STOP!"

TV Head's blade halted inches from Ken's arm. Ken, still breathing hard, gritted his teeth but didn't move.

"They didn't know!" Mel exclaimed, her voice laced with panic. "They don't know anything about the prophecy!"

TV Head's screen dimmed slightly, flickering in confusion. "Prophecy...?"

Mel's voice lowered. She didn't meet TV Head's gaze.

"They didn't know about the human... born from the egg."

TV Head slowly retracted their weapons, shaking ever so slightly. Their screen returned to blue, with small, blinking white eyes.

"...You are not like the others," they whispered.

Mel looked back at them. "...Neither are you."

Ken finally stood, still glaring. "One word of this," he growled, "to the others, to anyone else, and you're scrap metal. Got it?"

TV Head nodded, arms at their sides.

Ken left without another word, the door slamming behind him.

Mel and TV Head stood in silence.

"...Sorry about the jar," TV Head murmured after a beat.

Mel snorted and wiped her nose. "Guess I can't blame a robot for having butterfingers."

TV Head's screen lit up with a shy smile.

A secret shared. A warning given. A truth half-spoken.

And somewhere deep inside TV Head's chest, something stirred. Something they didn't have words for yet.

Not memory.

But maybe...

The beginning of one.

[clean-bubbles-aka-bubbles]

₊❏❜ ⋮[ 𝔸𝕨𝕒𝕜𝕖𝕟 ]⌒

You awaken to static that permeates more than just your vision-it thrums insistently within your mind. A fizzing hum envelops you, reminiscent of thousands of tiny cicadas creating a symphony behind your eyes. Breath is unnecessary, and blinking is a forgotten action. Instead, your head tilts at an unearthly angle, an unnatural slow-motion scan of your surroundings beginning.

Ruins stretch out before you-an endless expanse of gray under a dilapidated ceiling with light bleeding through cracked metal like blood through a wound. Shadows dance furtively, shifting as four figures retreat slightly, their expressions a mix of disbelief and astonishment.

"What the hell is that-" one of them spits, a beefy figure with heavy boots and hands balled into fists. He exudes a sense of raw power-not yet hostile, merely loud and brash.

"Ken, you kicked it," another groans, this one a small, slim figure adorned with a crooked smile and vibrant, red eyes. Her voice crackles like the surface of a well-worn vinyl record-nostalgic and charmingly battered, yet imbued with an insatiable curiosity. She's the one who planted the chip inside you, igniting an ember where there had been none.

Your legs twitch as they unfurl from the strange position they've been in, long and eerily smooth, stretching out like fine strands of metal. Your hands flex, fingers clicking into an articulated shape, fitting together like pieces of an abstract puzzle. You are tall-towering over your previous self, or perhaps towering over a past you can no longer grasp.

A glimmer of sunlight caresses your chest, and instinctively, you glance downward. Armor-sleek and glossy-wraps around you like a second skin, a shield reflecting the fractured light. A smooth screen occupies the place where your face should be, and within your chest cavity, a hum resonates as if a quiet engine purrs beneath the distortion, carrying warmth-a comforting familiarity.

Tentatively, you attempt to speak, yet your voice bursts forth in glitches, reminiscent of a warped cassette tape. "...H-hel... lo?"

The girl- Mel -steps forward, her interest piqued. "It can talk?"

The third figure, a wiry guy with exaggeratedly large red eyes, makes a bold advance, excitement thrumming through him like an electric current. "Can it dance?" he adds with a snort of laughter.

"Maybe don't provoke the potentially sentient murder-machine?" the fourth quips, a zombie wearing a dusty detective-like jacket and sporting a melting green face, lurking behind a crate as if sheltering himself from the chaos unfolding.

Confusion reigns in your mind as the chatter swirls around you. A wave of static crashes against your thoughts, accompanied by echoes of distant laughter-images of sunlight, warm embraces, parents, and blurred faces drifting further into oblivion.

You blink (symbolically and with effort). "...Name...?" you rasp, each word slipping from your voice box like a garbled disc. "Do I... have one?"

Mel tilts her head, her expression softening amid the sharpness of the moment. "You don't know who you are?"

In response, you shake your head slowly, static crackling through the motion like a fragile wire. "I was... in a field. Then... dark. Then..."

You look down again at your hands; these appendages are unfamiliar to you. You are-indeed-an enigma, a puzzle you cannot solve.

She crosses her arms, contemplating. "Well. You woke up smiling. Kinda." Her brow furrows slightly, aware that your face is merely a screen with very large and unnerving eyes in place of a typical visage. "And you've got a screen for a head..." Her lips twist into a playful grin. "We'll call you TV Head for now."

You blink, processing what she has just assigned you-a name, a label. It feels like a placeholder, yet it carries a certain resonance.

"TV Head..."

You repeat, your voice still distorted but managed with newfound steadiness. You tap the side of your face-your screen-with a mechanical curiosity, marveling in a moment of clarity. "That... is me."

The four of them exchange glances, a web of silent communication weaving between them, one you cannot decipher. Then, with a heavy sigh, Ken breaks the silence.

"We're not takin' it home."

"Yes, we are," Mel counters, her tone firm. "You broke it, and it imprinted on me."

"I didn't-!" Ken throws his hands up in exasperation. "Fine. But if it starts talking backwards or eats one of us in our sleep, I'm dropping it off a cliff."

You remain motionless as they continue to argue. Not out of fear, but because your mind is in overdrive, processing every detail.

The world is decidedly different. The air is tainted with the scent of rust instead of flowers. The breezes carry no melodies, and the ground below lacks warmth.

Yet they... they feel alive. Even in their stitched, fractured forms, there's a vitality that emanates from them.

Perhaps you are, too.

Inside you, something flickers-like sunlight filtering through the veil of an old memory, promising that there could still be remnants of the one who once danced freely in fields of green.

You just have to survive long enough to find it.

With (Y/n)-or rather, TV Head-an intimidating and lanky tall entity now tagging along like an awkward, towering lost puppy, the journey to the Smiling Dead's run-down car was slow and full of curious glances. Not from strangers-they were far out of sight in these rusted wastes-but from the mismatched crew themselves.

TV Head followed just a little behind, the screen of their face flickering occasionally with static lines and soft glowing shapes. Their voice came out in slow, drawn-out distortion, like it had been dragged through an old cassette tape and stitched back together. Yet each garbled word carried a strange warmth, as if they were trying to show their gratitude.

"...Th-th... ank... y-yo... u..."

Melancholy Hill, whom TV Head promptly nicknamed Mummy Girl, turned slightly to glance back at them. She didn't seem to mind the name. If anything, she seemed amused by the way this glitchy stranger perceived the world. With her pale blue skin, ginger hair, and thick white bandages wrapped around most of her body, she looked more like a mummy cosplay than anything undead. But TV Head saw her as something oddly human. Familiar.

Next was her brother-non-blood-related-who, to TV Head's utter confusion and admiration, appeared to be made entirely out of... bread. A literal loaf, with eyes and a mouth, casually adjusting his hoodie as they walked. He had introduced himself as Breadhead, but the nickname Bread Man stuck in TV Head's glitching processor.

Then came the uncle, Mud. TV Head didn't quite understand what he was. His face looked like it was melting right off his skull, and his dull, swampy-green skin stretched loosely like wet clay under a cowboy hat. Add the cigarette permanently attached to his mouth and a wrinkled suit like he'd slept in a coffin, and TV Head decided on Mr. Melting Face.

Last, but certainly not least, was the towering, half-naked man who introduced himself with a glare and a growl: Ken "The Butcher." His scarred, muscular body was intimidating enough, but what really sealed the name Mr. Butcher Knife in TV Head's system was the actual knife sticking out of his skull. That, and the fact he was wearing an apron and only a single undergarment beneath it. Covered in blood. Lots of blood.

They reached the car. A black limousine with the attitude of a coffin on wheels. The immediate problem became apparent.

"...It's not gonna fit," Breadhead muttered, eyeing the 8'5" figure.

TV Head tilted their head in anticipation. They weren't worried.

"We're not leaving it behind," Mel declared. "We brought a friend. We're taking a friend."

"Friend?" The undead butcher with a knife in his head raised an eyebrow. "We don't know if it has a soul or just wants to microwave us in our sleep," Ken grumbled.

Still, they tried.

Attempt 1: Tip him sideways and try to slide him in like a rolled carpet. Result: Screen gets jammed in the doorframe.

Attempt 2: Head first, legs up. Result: TV Head folds like a noodle, but now the screen is poking out the rear window like a periscope.

Attempt 3: Lay him across all the backseats with everyone else squished around him. Result: No one can breathe. Bread Man gets crumbs in TV Head's wiring.

Through all of this, TV Head remained completely still and completely patient. No signs of pain, frustration, or offense. Just an occasional "...You are... t-t-tired..." or a hopeful "...May I... h-h-h-help...?"

Eventually, Mel, panting heavily and her bandages askew, threw up her arms in surrender. "Okay, okay! Maybe we let it choose how to fit?"

TV Head, a peculiar figure draped in a patchwork of wires and screens, slowly raised a hand, the movement almost mechanical as if it were deliberating.

"...C-c-can... r-return... t-to... b-base..." came the stuttering voice from its screen, like a glitchy digital echo.

"Base?" Mud asked, his brow melting under the weight of confusion as he raised an eyebrow, the heat warping his expression.

"...Ori-ginal f-f-form," TV Head replied, its lanky finger tapping against the flickering screen on its face, the gesture oddly human but unsettling in its mechanical precision.

This revelation made them ponder deeply. Mel turned to Mud, her eyes brightening with a spark of inspiration. "Hey! Maybe if we pull the chip, it goes back to sleep? Y'know, like a reset."

"Maybe." He crouched low, extending a cautious hand toward the port nestled in TV Head's back. The chip sat snugly inside, but no matter how hard he tried, it stubbornly refused to budge, as if it were glued in place.

"Great," Ken grumbled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Did you break it again?"

"She placed it, Ken," Mud deadpanned, frustration creeping into his tone as he shot a glare over his shoulder. "Calm your apron."

With a grunt of determination, Ken, unwilling to be sidelined, reached past them all and pressed a small, blinking blue button nestled beneath the chip port, an illustration of hurried resolve flushing across his face.

Click.

The chip popped free with a small, satisfying sound.

TV Head dropped suddenly, like a marionette with its strings cut, crashing to the floor in a lifeless heap.

.

.

*CRASH!*

The towering, elegant figure slumped immediately into a pile of unnaturally flexible limbs and cables, their screen face going dark. Their limbs twitched once-like the last shudder of a VHS dying in a dusty player-and then they were still.

"...Okay," Breadhead muttered. "That was terrifying."

"Yeah, well," Ken said, tucking the chip into his blood-splattered apron, "at least now it'll fit in the trunk."

Mel leaned over the motionless form, gently tucking one of its arms in. "Don't worry, TV Head. We'll figure you out."

They loaded TV Head in like a folded-up beach chair. Somehow, it worked.

Next stop: home. Or... whatever you call the place the Smiling Dead called home.

[clean-bubbles-aka-bubbles]

₊❏❜ ⋮[ ℙℝ𝕆𝕃𝕆𝔾𝕌𝔼: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕝𝕕 (𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕦𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕠 𝕓𝕖) 𝕚𝕤 𝕒𝕟 𝕆𝕪𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣 ]⌒

From your eyes, everything was blindingly vivid-like a surreal watercolor daydream that bled seamlessly into reality. The skies shimmered with a luscious summer glaze, the sun radiant and proud overhead, casting warm cascades of gold across the vast, blooming fields of vibrant dandelions and delicate daisies. Birds chirped out melodious symphonies that danced playfully through the gentle breeze, fluttering with purpose and boundless cheer.

The world, to you, was an oyster-wide, glimmering, and brimming with promise, infused with the kind of unreachable magic that others only dared to speak of in poetic metaphors. It didn't matter that your legs ached after short, spirited runs, that your chest strained against the wild winds, or that your body sometimes betrayed you in moments of fatigue. You smiled. You lived.

Laughter bubbled joyfully in your throat as your parents sprinted to catch up, their voices a mix of worry and affectionate surrender.

"(Y/n), slow down!" your mother called, breathless with concern, her tone a melody of love.

"We said don't run off too far," your father added, his voice gentle yet firm, not unkindly, as they finally reached you.

Their arms enveloped you like sturdy anchors-shaky, yet overflowing with love and protection. You could feel their concern woven deeply into the way they held on, could hear the silent pleadings hidden within their warm smiles. Still, you beamed at them, that radiant light in your chest banishing the shadows away.

"I'm alright," you declared with a dazzling grin, tilting your face up to the sunlit sky and to them.

But their faces... they began to blur, as if the golden sun was obscured by an unseen veil. Was it the sun? Or were your eyes deceiving you once more?

Then-

Everything went dark.

No sun.

No wind.

No sky.

Only an enveloping cold silence.

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙

.

.

.

[ PRESENT DAY: ]

[ CITY: GASLIGHT DISTRICT ]

[ LOCATION: ABANDONED WAREHOUSE ]

.

.

.

The clattering halt of a spiked-decorated car echoed ominously through the shadowy expanse of the dark green wasteland, dust curling around its worn wheels like spectral remnants of what once thrived in this forsaken land. The air was thick and suffocating with decay and ash, yet oddly still, as if waiting for something to break the silence. Out stepped four figures, mismatched in size but united in their peculiarities and unspoken intent.

The Smiling Dead.

Their leader, Ken, cracked his neck with a menacing pop and scanned the surroundings with a sneer that could cut through steel. "Another dump. Let's make this quick." He snapped his fingers, a percussive sound slicing through the stillness. "Breadhead, my boy," his expression softened strangely at the sight of the food creature. "Papa needs help opening the doors."

With a chuckle and a crack of knuckles (which were nothing more than the soft crunching of baked bread), the bread-made humanoid ambled up to the door, reeling back a fist before launching into action, punching the doors open with a determined force.

.

.

*SMASH!*

.

.

The doors exploded apart, wood splintering and cascading into the air like confetti of forgotten memories. The warehouse loomed before them like the skeletal carcass of a giant, hollow and abandoned, a monument to a bygone age. The family spread out through its rusted ribs-creaking and groaning-kicking at boxes and prying open crates with an urgency that belied their exhaustion.

It wasn't about hope anymore-it was a mere habit, a relentless search for something. Anything that still worked. Perhaps even a TV that flickered with memories of a world that was once vibrant and alive.

Melancholy Hill-Mel for short-sifted through the debris, a deep frown etched into her cheeks, shadows dancing across her face as she dug through remnants of the past.

She opened a box, anticipation flickering in her chest.

Empty.

Kicked another with frustration.

Dust.

She huffed, irritation bubbling to the surface. "This place's dryer than Ken's sense of humor."

Then she saw it.

Nestled beneath a jagged fracture in the roof, golden sunlight poured through like a celestial blessing. A glimmer caught her eye, striking against something metallic, reflective, and untouched. Mel eagerly pushed aside the twisted remains of shattered screens and cracked shells, revealing a vintage television set.

But this wasn't just any old relic; it was a pristine gem. Its surface gleamed like armor, and its screen was impeccably clean. No dust settled on it. No trace of rust marred its beauty. It simply... awaited.

"Guys," Mel called, crouching beside the treasure, excitement bubbling in her voice. "Look at this."

Mud wandered over, his fingers delicately flipping a chipped circuit as if it were a rare coin. "Was gonna toss this," he muttered, almost absentmindedly. Mel's eyes lit up with fervor.

"Gimme!"

Before he could voice any argument, she snatched the chip from his hands and slotted it into the port at the back of the television. The family gathered around her, a mix of curiosity and caution evident in their expressions. The screen flickered-once, twice-slow static lines crawling across like jagged veins of electricity. The glow was weak, pulsing softly.

Then it died, a sudden darkness swallowing the feeble light.

Ken groaned in annoyance-

.

.

*CLANK!*

.

.

-and kicked the television in frustration. "Another waste of time," he said with a grunt, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Let's go."

They turned to leave, disappointment hanging in the air like a thick fog.

But then-the fizzing started.

Not just a quiet buzz; it was sharp, insistent, hungry. The screen remained black, but something inside the machine stirred with a life of its own.

The television began to expand, convulsing violently as limbs tore free from hidden compartments that had gone unnoticed moments before. Long, clawed fingers scraped against the ground, creating a chilling sound. Wires writhed like serpents, stitching themselves into place with a disturbing grace. A torso pulled itself up from the chaos, elegant yet grotesque in its unnatural movement. Joints clicked and turned, metal folding over metal, until a towering form emerged, standing tall under the sun's gaze.

The four of them stopped in their tracks, their bodies freezing in synchrony as they slowly turned to face the looming shadow and the flickering light.

A monstrous silhouette loomed before them.

Lanky.

Alien.

Uncannily alive.

It stood like a shadow stretched too long, unnaturally tall and disturbingly slender-more silhouette than substance until the dim light caught on worn metal and humming wires whirring with static energy. Its frame is pieced together from a collage of mismatched machinery and scrap-tech, an eerie yet mesmerizing fusion of archaic elegance and the sinister remnants of a mechanical past. At a glance, it resembles a humanoid marionette, delicately crafted with spindly limbs and jointed sockets, every motion fluid yet unsettling, as if pulled by unseen strings lurking in the shadows.

Its head is a cracked, cube-shaped monitor, thick with static fuzz dancing across the screen and heavy glare casting distorted reflections. Two sets of twin eyes flicker insistently across the display-oval and jagged, glowing a toxic green, entrapped within blood-red sclera, like malice set ablaze. The screen tilts at expressive angles, mimicking human emotions with an eerie, glitched sincerity that suggests more than just a machine's programming. Perched atop are sharp, triangular ears forged from metal plates, twitching occasionally with a life of their own, coded with embedded sensors that pick up the faintest vibrations in the air.

It was draped in a tattered navy-colored cloak, stained with the remnants of digital residue and torn from past encounters that haunt its existence. Its arms are grotesquely elongated, cables snaking from its shoulders down to its claw-like hands, blackened and oversized, capable of both crushing and caressing with a disconcerting precision. On one side, a jagged white forearm sheath shimmers with a faint blue glow-likely housing a menacing energy blade or a collection of hidden tools ready to spring into action.

Strapped tightly around its waist is a tangled utility belt interlaced with wires, compartments, and slots where small, deadly implements seem to vanish with a hushed hiss of compressed air, like whispers of forgotten weapons. Beneath the cloak, a bodysuit of faded synth-fabric clings to its torso-layered with flexible plates and neon-green circuitry that pulses rhythmically like a second heartbeat, a living testament to a hidden life force. Its legs are digitigrade, ending in heavy boots equipped with magnetic grips and mysterious compartments-one click and a blade or hook might spring forth like a predator from the dark.

Its tail, long and curling with an electric plug at the end, twitches with a restless energy as if possessing a mind of its own. It serves as both weapon and lifeline, capable of interfacing with technology, sapping energy from the world around it, or coiling around an enemy's throat with lethal intent. Every joint, every pivot, every movement they make is unnaturally fluid-just human enough to unsettle, just robotic enough to terrify and invoke dread.

It looked like the embodiment of forgotten tech and violent intent, conjured for the purposes of infiltration, trickery, and silent execution-yet somehow, behind the eerie screen-eyes and beneath the twisted casing of wires and weapons, there lies something deeply profound: a flicker of thought, of self... of rebellion.

The TV was no longer a TV.

It was someone.

And it had just woken up.

[clean-bubbles-aka-bubbles]

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋ [𝙲𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙸𝙽𝙵𝙾] ࿐ྂ

Full Name: (Y/n) (L/n)

Nickname(s): (N/n), TV Head, "The Boxful of Surprises," "The Pockets of Sunshine", Metal Bean

Age: ?

Personality: Quiet, clumsy, curious, ecstatic

Gender: Non-Binary

Species: Robot

Height: 8'5"

Occupation:

Security Guard & Janitor [MAIN]

Busboy [PART-TIME]

Waitress/Waiter [PART-TIME]

Dishwasher [PART-TIME]

Affiliation(s): Member of The Smiling Dead [CURRENTLY]

Relative(s): N/A

Status: Functional

Appearance:

Backstory:

Your memories about yourself were pretty fuzzy. One minute, you were just running around in grassy fields with a smile plastered on your face. Everything was just rainbows and sunshine, or whatever vibe you were feeling, as you were simply enjoying life.

But then, out of nowhere, everything went black. At least, that's how you remember it. Next thing you know, you're jolted awake by a harsh kick to the head, greeted by the eerie sound of a dead world. It was all pretty desolate, weird vultures flapping around, and that heavy, metaphorical stench of decay and emptiness was everywhere.

Your body felt odd, and you had a strange zero recollection of your past life. You looked and felt tall, lanky, and flexed in a way that just felt... off. You felt like some inflexible and uncanny robot.

Turning to see who gave you that rude awakening, you stare at four figures: three zombies and one human.

[clean-bubbles-aka-bubbles]

Boxful of Surprises, Pockets of Sunshine (TGD x Reader)

"𝕊𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣 (𝔖𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯)" "𝔹𝕦𝕣𝕟 (𝔅𝔲𝔯𝔫)" "𝔽𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕟 (𝔉𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔫)" "𝔻𝕚𝕣𝕥 (𝔇𝔦𝔯𝔱)"

"𝕊𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣 (𝔖𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯)" "𝔹𝕦𝕣𝕟 (𝔅𝔲𝔯𝔫)" "𝔽𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕟 (𝔉𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔫)" "𝔻𝕚𝕣𝕥 (𝔇𝔦𝔯𝔱)"

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ SONG: [ 𝐂𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐂𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐃𝐨𝐭 𝐃𝐨𝐭 ]

CREDITS TO ORIGINAL OWNER! WALLPAPER DOES NOT BELONG TO ME!

You remembered how you were human before the world ended… at least you think you do, since it all felt out of your grasp.

Now, waking up with nothing but living in a robotic body, you have to get accustomed to a post-apocalyptic world where inhabitants are cursed to exist eternally, leading to a society rife with decay and corruption, and a realm death is meaningless, and survival hinges on one's ability to outwit and outmaneuver others.

(I DO NOT OWN THE GASLIGHT DISTRICT WALLPAPER, EVERYTHING GOES TO THEIR RIGHTFUL OWNERS!)

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑:

THIS IS A FANFICTION OF THE GASLIGHT DISTRICT. I DO NOT OWN THE FRANCHISE AND CHARACTERS! I REPEAT, THIS IS A FANFICTION!

IF YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS, DROP IT IN THE ASKING INBOX ON MY ACCOUNT OR PUT IT IN THE COMMENT SECTION BELOW!

TABLE OF CONTENTS:

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋ [𝙲𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙸𝙽𝙵𝙾] ࿐ྂ

INTRODUCTION

₊❏❜ ⋮[ ℙℝ𝕆𝕃𝕆𝔾𝕌𝔼: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕝𝕕 (𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕦𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕠 𝕓𝕖) 𝕚𝕤 𝕒𝕟 𝕆𝕪𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣 ]⌒

₊❏❜ ⋮[ 𝔸𝕨𝕒𝕜𝕖𝕟 ]⌒

₊❏❜ ⋮[ 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕃𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕤𝕥 𝕄𝕖𝕞𝕓𝕖𝕣 ]⌒

[clean-bubbles-aka-bubbles]

THE FUNDAMENTALIST

"ℝ𝕠𝕝𝕝 𝕦𝕡, 𝕣𝕠𝕝𝕝 𝕦𝕡 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 "𝕄𝕒𝕘𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕝 𝕄𝕪𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕪 𝕋𝕠𝕦𝕣" "𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐲!"

"ℝ𝕠𝕝𝕝 𝕦𝕡!" "ℝ𝕠𝕝𝕝 𝕦𝕡 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕄𝕪𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕪 𝕋𝕠𝕦𝕣" "ℝ𝕠𝕝𝕝 𝕦𝕡!" "ℝ𝕠𝕝𝕝 𝕦𝕡 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕄𝕪𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕪 𝕋𝕠𝕦𝕣" "ℝ𝕠𝕝𝕝 𝕦𝕡! (𝔗𝔥𝔞𝔱'𝔰 𝔞𝔫 𝔦𝔫𝔳𝔦𝔱𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫)" "ℝ𝕠𝕝𝕝 𝕦𝕡 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕄𝕪𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕪 𝕋𝕠𝕦𝕣" "ℝ𝕠𝕝𝕝 𝕦𝕡! (𝔗𝔬 𝔪𝔞𝔨𝔢 𝔞 𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔢𝔯𝔳𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫)" "ℝ𝕠𝕝𝕝 𝕦𝕡 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕄𝕪𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕪 𝕋𝕠𝕦𝕣"

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ SONG: [ 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐘𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐑 ]

[ CREDITS ]

Squared Media {Steve Design}

Benly Animations {Henry, Natalie, Garret & Dawn + Background Pic}

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You're not exactly the average, typical individual anyone would greet. One would think you would be called an average misfit. But rather, it is your neurodivergent that makes them stand out from the others despite looking normal. Wanting to start a new life, you moved into Chuglass, Idaho, with your mother, hoping everything would be normal for you. In fact, you hope it would treat you like someone normal, where there was no judgment. However, your so-called "normal" life takes a turn when you and four other misfits get pulled into a world full of blocks.

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑:

THIS IS A FANFICTION OF THE MINECRAFT MOVIE. I DO NOT OWN THE FRANCHISE AND CHARACTERS! I REPEAT, THIS IS A FANFICTION!

IF YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS, DROP IT IN THE ASKING INBOX ON MY ACCOUNT OR PUT IT IN THE COMMENT SECTION BELOW!

THIS IS MY FIRST TIME WRITING A NEURODIVERGENT READER, SO PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF THERE IS ANYTHING THAT MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE FOR HOW THE READER IS PORTRAYED AS!

TABLE OF CONTENTS:

COMING SOON!

[clean-bubbles-aka-bubbles]

MUST

.

WRITE

.

MINECRAFT FANFIC-

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A҉҉̦̣̤͔̟̩̋̿̏ͦ̈́̍͟͠Ṡ̷̢̫̞̻͈͋͛̓̅͜͜͜͠͠͠F̶̵͖͚̯̮̤̫̿̆͌͋͢͟͡͡G̸҉̜̜̱̄ͩ͆͜͝͞K҉̿ͭ͘͜L̴҉̴͙͖̞̳̜̖ͣͧ̑̑͜͞͠͞͠J̴̵҉̣͖̃̉̓́͜͢U̵̶̸̹̮̹̲̻͙̎ͪͣͦ͜͡͞͡͡H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞V̶̝̐̀͟͟͝E҉̰̰͎̆͞W̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠F̶̵͖͚̯̮̤̫̿̆͌͋͢͟͡͡I҉̡̯̺̜̅́͋̃͢͜O̷̵҉̢̭͚̜̠ͫͣ͐͢͟͢͠͞͝N̵҉̾͟͞͡ J̴̵҉̣͖̃̉̓́͜͢G̸҉̜̜̱̄ͩ͆͜͝͞H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞B̵̴҉̞̠̘̩͍̱́͊͗͜͠͠͠͠N̵҉̾͟͞͡E҉̰̰͎̆͞I҉̡̯̺̜̅́͋̃͢͜W̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠A҉҉̦̣̤͔̟̩̋̿̏ͦ̈́̍͟͠P҉̷̧̥͚̣̉̓̕͟͜͠͞͠͝ͅR̴҉̷̨̖̮̉͑ͯ̑̋͟͠F̶̵͖͚̯̮̤̫̿̆͌͋͢͟͡͡B̵̴҉̞̠̘̩͍̱́͊͗͜͠͠͠͠N̵҉̾͟͞͡V̶̝̐̀͟͟͝ G̸҉̜̜̱̄ͩ͆͜͝͞H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞Q̵̴̢͕̬̒̅̊͜͜͠͠͡O̷̵҉̢̭͚̜̠ͫͣ͐͢͟͢͠͞͝W̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠I҉̡̯̺̜̅́͋̃͢͜R̴҉̷̨̖̮̉͑ͯ̑̋͟͠U̵̶̸̹̮̹̲̻͙̎ͪͣͦ͜͡͞͡͡G̸҉̜̜̱̄ͩ͆͜͝͞F̶̵͖͚̯̮̤̫̿̆͌͋͢͟͡͡H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞E҉̰̰͎̆͞I҉̡̯̺̜̅́͋̃͢͜O̷̵҉̢̭͚̜̠ͫͣ͐͢͟͢͠͞͝W̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠Q̵̴̢͕̬̒̅̊͜͜͠͠͡R̴҉̷̨̖̮̉͑ͯ̑̋͟͠U̵̶̸̹̮̹̲̻͙̎ͪͣͦ͜͡͞͡͡G̸҉̜̜̱̄ͩ͆͜͝͞H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞O̷̵҉̢̭͚̜̠ͫͣ͐͢͟͢͠͞͝W̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠E҉̰̰͎̆͞R̴҉̷̨̖̮̉͑ͯ̑̋͟͠U̵̶̸̹̮̹̲̻͙̎ͪͣͦ͜͡͞͡͡G̸҉̜̜̱̄ͩ͆͜͝͞H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞B̵̴҉̞̠̘̩͍̱́͊͗͜͠͠͠͠N̵҉̾͟͞͡U̵̶̸̹̮̹̲̻͙̎ͪͣͦ͜͡͞͡͡I҉̡̯̺̜̅́͋̃͢͜P҉̷̧̥͚̣̉̓̕͟͜͠͞͠͝ͅQ̵̴̢͕̬̒̅̊͜͜͠͠͡R̴҉̷̨̖̮̉͑ͯ̑̋͟͠W̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠U̵̶̸̹̮̹̲̻͙̎ͪͣͦ͜͡͞͡͡H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞F̶̵͖͚̯̮̤̫̿̆͌͋͢͟͡͡N̵҉̾͟͞͡Q̵̴̢͕̬̒̅̊͜͜͠͠͡E҉̰̰͎̆͞P҉̷̧̥͚̣̉̓̕͟͜͠͞͠͝ͅW̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠F̶̵͖͚̯̮̤̫̿̆͌͋͢͟͡͡H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞U̵̶̸̹̮̹̲̻͙̎ͪͣͦ͜͡͞͡͡ Q̵̴̢͕̬̒̅̊͜͜͠͠͡W̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠P҉̷̧̥͚̣̉̓̕͟͜͠͞͠͝ͅR̴҉̷̨̖̮̉͑ͯ̑̋͟͠I҉̡̯̺̜̅́͋̃͢͜G̸҉̜̜̱̄ͩ͆͜͝͞H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞Q̵̴̢͕̬̒̅̊͜͜͠͠͡E҉̰̰͎̆͞G̸҉̜̜̱̄ͩ͆͜͝͞R̴҉̷̨̖̮̉͑ͯ̑̋͟͠9̷̵҉̲̼̻͇̠͍̍̽͌͟͞[Q̵̴̢͕̬̒̅̊͜͜͠͠͡W̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠[N̵҉̾͟͞͡R̴҉̷̨̖̮̉͑ͯ̑̋͟͠3҉̨͕͕̰̟̔̂́͟͢͜͝E҉̰̰͎̆͞G̸҉̜̜̱̄ͩ͆͜͝͞A҉҉̦̣̤͔̟̩̋̿̏ͦ̈́̍͟͠Ṡ̷̢̫̞̻͈͋͛̓̅͜͜͜͠͠͠O̷̵҉̢̭͚̜̠ͫͣ͐͢͟͢͠͞͝P҉̷̧̥͚̣̉̓̕͟͜͠͞͠͝ͅD҉̣͍̓̎͗͜͜F̶̵͖͚̯̮̤̫̿̆͌͋͢͟͡͡H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞N̵҉̾͟͞͡A҉҉̦̣̤͔̟̩̋̿̏ͦ̈́̍͟͠V̶̝̐̀͟͟͝W̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠I҉̡̯̺̜̅́͋̃͢͜U̵̶̸̹̮̹̲̻͙̎ͪͣͦ͜͡͞͡͡H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞G̸҉̜̜̱̄ͩ͆͜͝͞V̶̝̐̀͟͟͝I҉̡̯̺̜̅́͋̃͢͜O̷̵҉̢̭͚̜̠ͫͣ͐͢͟͢͠͞͝A҉҉̦̣̤͔̟̩̋̿̏ͦ̈́̍͟͠V̶̝̐̀͟͟͝W̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠R̴҉̷̨̖̮̉͑ͯ̑̋͟͠U̵̶̸̹̮̹̲̻͙̎ͪͣͦ͜͡͞͡͡H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞W̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠E҉̰̰͎̆͞I҉̡̯̺̜̅́͋̃͢͜O̷̵҉̢̭͚̜̠ͫͣ͐͢͟͢͠͞͝R̴҉̷̨̖̮̉͑ͯ̑̋͟͠G̸҉̜̜̱̄ͩ͆͜͝͞H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞N̵҉̾͟͞͡ Q̵̴̢͕̬̒̅̊͜͜͠͠͡R̴҉̷̨̖̮̉͑ͯ̑̋͟͠W̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠I҉̡̯̺̜̅́͋̃͢͜O̷̵҉̢̭͚̜̠ͫͣ͐͢͟͢͠͞͝F̶̵͖͚̯̮̤̫̿̆͌͋͢͟͡͡H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞N̵҉̾͟͞͡ G̸҉̜̜̱̄ͩ͆͜͝͞Q̵̴̢͕̬̒̅̊͜͜͠͠͡O̷̵҉̢̭͚̜̠ͫͣ͐͢͟͢͠͞͝W̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠[I҉̡̯̺̜̅́͋̃͢͜N̵҉̾͟͞͡E҉̰̰͎̆͞R̴҉̷̨̖̮̉͑ͯ̑̋͟͠F̶̵͖͚̯̮̤̫̿̆͌͋͢͟͡͡G̸҉̜̜̱̄ͩ͆͜͝͞I҉̡̯̺̜̅́͋̃͢͜Q̵̴̢͕̬̒̅̊͜͜͠͠͡U̵̶̸̹̮̹̲̻͙̎ͪͣͦ͜͡͞͡͡E҉̰̰͎̆͞P҉̷̧̥͚̣̉̓̕͟͜͠͞͠͝ͅR̴҉̷̨̖̮̉͑ͯ̑̋͟͠W̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠G̸҉̜̜̱̄ͩ͆͜͝͞H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞N̵҉̾͟͞͡U̵̶̸̹̮̹̲̻͙̎ͪͣͦ͜͡͞͡͡E҉̰̰͎̆͞I҉̡̯̺̜̅́͋̃͢͜Q̵̴̢͕̬̒̅̊͜͜͠͠͡W̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠R̴҉̷̨̖̮̉͑ͯ̑̋͟͠U̵̶̸̹̮̹̲̻͙̎ͪͣͦ͜͡͞͡͡G̸҉̜̜̱̄ͩ͆͜͝͞H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞N̵҉̾͟͞͡E҉̰̰͎̆͞R̴҉̷̨̖̮̉͑ͯ̑̋͟͠W̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠I҉̡̯̺̜̅́͋̃͢͜U̵̶̸̹̮̹̲̻͙̎ͪͣͦ͜͡͞͡͡G̸҉̜̜̱̄ͩ͆͜͝͞H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞E҉̰̰͎̆͞9̷̵҉̲̼̻͇̠͍̍̽͌͟͞P҉̷̧̥͚̣̉̓̕͟͜͠͞͠͝ͅR̴҉̷̨̖̮̉͑ͯ̑̋͟͠U̵̶̸̹̮̹̲̻͙̎ͪͣͦ͜͡͞͡͡G̸҉̜̜̱̄ͩ͆͜͝͞H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞Ṡ̷̢̫̞̻͈͋͛̓̅͜͜͜͠͠͠G̸҉̜̜̱̄ͩ͆͜͝͞V̶̝̐̀͟͟͝H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞E҉̰̰͎̆͞A҉҉̦̣̤͔̟̩̋̿̏ͦ̈́̍͟͠R̴҉̷̨̖̮̉͑ͯ̑̋͟͠U̵̶̸̹̮̹̲̻͙̎ͪͣͦ͜͡͞͡͡I҉̡̯̺̜̅́͋̃͢͜P҉̷̧̥͚̣̉̓̕͟͜͠͞͠͝ͅG̸҉̜̜̱̄ͩ͆͜͝͞H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞U̵̶̸̹̮̹̲̻͙̎ͪͣͦ͜͡͞͡͡I҉̡̯̺̜̅́͋̃͢͜O̷̵҉̢̭͚̜̠ͫͣ͐͢͟͢͠͞͝W̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠A҉҉̦̣̤͔̟̩̋̿̏ͦ̈́̍͟͠E҉̰̰͎̆͞N̵҉̾͟͞͡R̴҉̷̨̖̮̉͑ͯ̑̋͟͠F̶̵͖͚̯̮̤̫̿̆͌͋͢͟͡͡G̸҉̜̜̱̄ͩ͆͜͝͞U̵̶̸̹̮̹̲̻͙̎ͪͣͦ͜͡͞͡͡H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞E҉̰̰͎̆͞R̴҉̷̨̖̮̉͑ͯ̑̋͟͠W̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠V̶̝̐̀͟͟͝I҉̡̯̺̜̅́͋̃͢͜G̸҉̜̜̱̄ͩ͆͜͝͞N̵҉̾͟͞͡H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞V̶̝̐̀͟͟͝W̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠ E҉̰̰͎̆͞T҉̘͙͖̠̓ͦ͑̄͜͜͟͞U̵̶̸̹̮̹̲̻͙̎ͪͣͦ͜͡͞͡͡8̴҉̣̦̳̍̋̋̀͢͟͠0̷҉̧͇̩̪͙̏ͭͩ̂͘͟͢͜͡͞͝͞N̵҉̾͟͞͡Y̵̡̬͖̠̋ͫ̌ͤ̚͞͞Q̵̴̢͕̬̒̅̊͜͜͠͠͡W̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠3҉̨͕͕̰̟̔̂́͟͢͜͝4̷̡̳̖̆̇͘͟͟͢͝9̷̵҉̲̼̻͇̠͍̍̽͌͟͞P҉̷̧̥͚̣̉̓̕͟͜͠͞͠͝ͅ8̴҉̣̦̳̍̋̋̀͢͟͠T҉̘͙͖̠̓ͦ͑̄͜͜͟͞V̶̝̐̀͟͟͝Y̵̡̬͖̠̋ͫ̌ͤ̚͞͞N̵҉̾͟͞͡V̶̝̐̀͟͟͝4̷̡̳̖̆̇͘͟͟͢͝3҉̨͕͕̰̟̔̂́͟͢͜͝9̷̵҉̲̼̻͇̠͍̍̽͌͟͞P҉̷̧̥͚̣̉̓̕͟͜͠͞͠͝ͅT҉̘͙͖̠̓ͦ͑̄͜͜͟͞N̵҉̾͟͞͡Y̵̡̬͖̠̋ͫ̌ͤ̚͞͞W̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠E҉̰̰͎̆͞9̷̵҉̲̼̻͇̠͍̍̽͌͟͞P҉̷̧̥͚̣̉̓̕͟͜͠͞͠͝ͅ8̴҉̣̦̳̍̋̋̀͢͟͠G̸҉̜̜̱̄ͩ͆͜͝͞R̴҉̷̨̖̮̉͑ͯ̑̋͟͠N̵҉̾͟͞͡H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞V̶̝̐̀͟͟͝E҉̰̰͎̆͞W̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠R̴҉̷̨̖̮̉͑ͯ̑̋͟͠G̸҉̜̜̱̄ͩ͆͜͝͞T҉̘͙͖̠̓ͦ͑̄͜͜͟͞H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞I҉̡̯̺̜̅́͋̃͢͜P҉̷̧̥͚̣̉̓̕͟͜͠͞͠͝ͅW̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠4̷̡̳̖̆̇͘͟͟͢͝5̵҉̣ͨ͢͜V̶̝̐̀͟͟͝N̵҉̾͟͞͡A҉҉̦̣̤͔̟̩̋̿̏ͦ̈́̍͟͠Q̵̴̢͕̬̒̅̊͜͜͠͠͡W̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠9̷̵҉̲̼̻͇̠͍̍̽͌͟͞-N̵҉̾͟͞͡R̴҉̷̨̖̮̉͑ͯ̑̋͟͠8̴҉̣̦̳̍̋̋̀͢͟͠G̸҉̜̜̱̄ͩ͆͜͝͞N̵҉̾͟͞͡Y̵̡̬͖̠̋ͫ̌ͤ̚͞͞

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So… I had an idea of combining the personas, just like Steven Universe where gems can fuse together. I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea, but I thought I tried for fun and since I figured it would be interesting in future chapters for my One Piece fanfic.

Here’s the code: DHWYZ4RS4

I’ll send you more soon if I got time.

But for now… I challenge to see if you can remake this!

>:3

this.

grabs them by the throat (I had a burst of motivation ehe…)

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Honestly, I was kind of worried when you weren’t answering, but I didn’t want to spam ask you, so I waited! I hope you’re doing okay!

Spoilers: It’s a summary of what happened between Koken and Crocodile before Marineford war after escaping Impel Down.

Context: Your OC or your version of my OC asks Koken what happened after they were having their… MOMENT

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Hey. I know you guys have been searching for the perfect site to watch the 4kids dub One Piece, but here's the good news and bad news.

The bad news is that although all audio of the 4Kids dub of One Piece is included in every episode, the censorship is NOT shown in each episode.

The good news is that I've found the site that has the episodes. To continue to watch the other episodes in its chronological order, click the arrow to go to the previous page (I know it starts on page 12, but you have to get to page 1 to get to the final episode of 4kids dub)

Here's the link:

Let me know if it doesn't work for ya.

I've found the 4kids Dub...

Yes... after years of searching (only for a month, I've been searching) the series that did Sanji dirty and the characters' voices dirty (no offense, at least Zoro and (maybe) Crocodile is a bit decent. Please don't attack me)...

I HAVE FINALLY FOUND IT!

By the way, Episode 04, 03 Chasing Luffy is missing from this collection, and Episode 02, 03 Luffy vs. Zolo! is duplicated.

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One Piece 4kids Info!

For anyone who is interested in finding the information about the 4kids One Piece, feel free to check out this guy's channel above!

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Some more 4kids One Piece content

Kind of got bored, so I decided to post something interesting.

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“Oh… who is he (she)?”

“A misty memory…”

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Wonderful! Thanks!

I’m surprised that we can agree that Kirameku is a pure cinnamon roll!

Here’s my interpretation! Let me know what you think:

In regards to the One Piece!Reader’s personas that you made, I have decided to create chart that they can be assigned to.

So, if YOU had to sort them out within the boxes, from your opinion of how you view them, where would you assign them to?

(P.S., sorry for not giving you (Y/n)’s code. Here it is: HR22DOE8P)

The wonderful y/n (..us) [Code: FMIFE8F2W ]

and this yippee

[clean-bubbles-aka-bubbles]

Perchance, can I also have ur Life 2 codes for your version (up to you, ofc)?

so uh technically this is an ask from a friend of mine, [clean-bubbles-aka-bubbles]

{Hello, I know you have moved into different fandoms (such as Undertale and Demon Slayer), but I was wondering that (if you want to) if you’re still in the One Piece fandom, could you do a remake for my One Piece Gacha Life 2 OCs? (Your version goes on the right)}

So here’s the remakes that i definitely did at the last minute of school

"Right?!"

{"…annoying, who even is this other sharkgal?"}

"I guess..?"

"I-"

"..?"

"Yeah yeah…got nothing…to say to u either…" {flicking wrist}

"I assume it’s a coincidence?"

"Indeed other me! Or another me?"

I’m tired lmao I went through shit at school while making them but it’s fun! Some of them were just adjusted or I changed some of it hehe

[clean-bubbles-aka-bubbles]

He supposed to be a moth, however, I liked to depict him seraphim-like entity.

He has chassis floof, and he’s a hugger.

OH MY PRIMUS, I RLLY LOVE YOUR DESIGN FOR MY TF!ONE READER!

It’s super amazing!

Perchance (again), can I see how you do TF!One (Y/Cyb/n) except he has the T-cog?

Here’s the code: S9IVEWH4V

“Ah, we meet again, other me. I like to compliment you that whoever made such beauty is truly an artist.”

the lads, they interact. And they agree !

honestly I like the idea of some of her stuff without their T-cog stuff would be still there, hence the wings. One for T-cog (the purple), one for Primus (White), and without T-cog (Grey.) !

Felt like I was making a biblical Angel for a moment.. Wings are difficult as hell </3

More + I think they’d weld an axe as a gift of being a artificial prime ig (I also like the idea that they float with their uhhhh new transformation..hover legs)

Without T-cog code: V8XTW7MXP

T-cog: EY8G4PGBC