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justforbooks · 4 months ago

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‘It allowed us to survive, to not go mad’: the CIA book smuggling operation that helped bring down communism

From George Orwell to Hannah Arendt and John le Carré, thousands of blacklisted books flooded into Poland during the cold war, as publishers and printers risked their lives for literature

The volume’s glossy dust jacket shows a 1970s computer room, where high priests of the information age, dressed in kipper ties and flares, tap instructions into the terminals of some ancient mainframe. The only words on the front read “Master Operating Station”, “Subsidiary Operating Station” and “Free Standing Display”. Is any publication less appetising than an out-of-date technical manual?

Turn inside, however, and the book reveals a secret. It isn’t a computer manual at all, but a Polish language edition of Nineteen Eighty-Four, George Orwell’s famous anti-totalitarian novel, which was banned for decades by communist censors in the eastern bloc.

This copy lives now in the library of Warsaw University, but for much of the cold war it belonged to the Polish writer and dissident Teresa Bogucka. It was Teresa’s father, the art critic Janusz Bogucki, who first brought it to Poland. In 1957, during a window of liberalisation that opened after Stalin’s death, Janusz picked up the Orwell translation from a Polish bookshop in Paris, smuggled it back through the border and gave it to his daughter. Teresa was only 10 or 11 years old then, but she was a precocious reader, and recognised the ways in which communist Poland mirrored Orwell’s fictional dystopian state: “It absolutely traumatised me,” she remembered.

Years later, in 1976, when Bogucka joined the emerging Polish opposition movement, she decided to create a library of books that had bypassed the state censor, and donated her own small collection, including this Nineteen Eighty-Four. The SB security service, Poland’s KGB, kept continual watch on her, eavesdropping on her conversations, arresting her and searching her apartment, so she asked neighbours to store the forbidden books. Much of the time, though, they would be circulating among readers, since this would be a “Flying Library”, which rarely touched the ground.

Bogucka’s system of covert lending ran through a network of coordinators, each of whom was responsible for their own tight group of readers. She sorted the books into categories – politics, economics, history, literature – and divided them into packages of 10, before allocating each coordinator a particular day to pick up their parcel, which they carried away in a rucksack. The coordinator would drop the books back the following month at a different address, before picking up a new set.

The demand for Bogucka’s books was such that soon she needed more, and these could only come from the west. Activist friends passed word to London, where émigré publishers arranged shipments of 30 or 40 volumes at a time, smuggling them through the iron curtain aboard the sleeper trains that shuttled back and forth between Paris and Moscow, stopping in Poland along the way. By 1978, Teresa Bogucka’s Flying Library had a stock of 500 prohibited titles.

How many people read her copy of Orwell’s book in those crucial cold war years? Hundreds, probably thousands. And this was just one of millions of titles that arrived illegally in Poland at that time. As well as via trains, books arrived by every possible conveyance: aboard yachts; in secret compartments built into vans and trucks; by balloon; in the post. Mini-editions were slipped into the sheet music of touring musicians, or packed into food tins or Tampax boxes. In one instance, a copy of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago was carried on a flight to Warsaw hidden in a baby’s nappy.

What some in the east suspected, but very few knew for sure, was that the uncensored literature flooding the country wasn’t reaching Poles by chance. It was sent as part of a decades-long US intelligence operation, known in Washington as the “CIA book program”, designed, in the words of the programme’s leader, George Minden, to assault the eastern bloc with an “offensive of free, honest thinking”. Minden believed that “truth is contagious”, and if they could only deliver it to the oppressed peoples of the Soviet zone, it was certain to have an effect.

From today’s vantage point, when disinformation threatens western liberal democracy as never before, and censorship and book bans are once again turning schools and libraries into ideological battlegrounds, the CIA literary programmes appear almost quaint. Although they had political goals, they must rank among the most highbrow of psychological warfare operations. Along with copies of the Manchester Guardian Weekly and the New York Review of Books, the CIA sent works by blacklisted authors such as Boris Pasternak, Czesław Miłosz and Joseph Brodsky, anti-totalitarian writings by Hannah Arendt and Albert Camus, literary fiction from Philip Roth and Kurt Vonnegut, writing advice from Virginia Woolf, the plays of Václav Havel and Bertolt Brecht, and the spy thrillers of John le Carré.

Later, as well as smuggling books, the CIA would fund and ship presses and printing equipment into Poland, so that the banned titles could be reproduced in huge quantities by underground printers in situ. Few individuals were more central to these latter operations than the dissident publisher Mirosław Chojecki, known to the CIA by the cryptonym QRGUIDE.

On a Tuesday evening in March 1980, the police came to arrest Chojecki for the 43rd time. Chojecki was 30 years old that night – a tall man, with a mane of red-brown hair. He lived with his family in a third-floor apartment in Żoliborz, a suburb of northern Warsaw, and was cooking dinner for his young son and talking to his father-in-law when they heard the door. There were three men outside, a local cop in the jackboots and grey tunic of the citizen’s militia, and two plainclothes SB agents. They flashed their badges and told him to get his coat. There was no explanation. He had just enough time to calm his crying son, grab a toothbrush and a pack of cigarettes, then they clapped handcuffs on his wrists and took him down to the police Fiat waiting on the road below.

They brought him to Mokotów jail, a house of terror to rival the KGB’s Lubyanka headquarters in Moscow, and put him in block III, a wing reserved for political prisoners. He had been here before, once for “vilifying the Polish People’s Republic” and again for “organising a criminal group with the aim of distributing illegal publications” – at least then he had known the reason for his detention. As the days dripped by, he and his cellmates talked politics and played chess with a set made from heavy black prison bread. He wasn’t allowed a lawyer.

At Easter, when he had been locked up for 10 days without being summoned to court or allowed to contact his family, he decided to take the path chosen by political prisoners everywhere: he would go on a hunger strike. Eight days later, when he had lost 8kg (17lb), the prison doctor announced that they would force-feed him. They inserted a hose into his mouth, pushing it in deep so that it scratched his oesophagus and made him gag, and poured in a sweet, fatty mush. Tears ran down his face, of helplessness, rage, revulsion. When the food was gone, the doctor whipped out the tube and left without a word.

Chojecki had not yet recovered when the guards returned and forced him to climb three landings to an interrogation room, where an intelligence officer was waiting. It was Lieutenant Chernyshevsky, an old sparring partner.

How was he feeling, Chernyshevsky asked?

“Bad.”

“Do you know that there is a printing house on Reymonta Street?”

Chojecki didn’t answer.

“Do you have Jan Nowak’s book Courier from Warsaw? If so, where, when and how did you come into possession of it and what is your relationship with the author?”

There were more questions in this vein, all about the underground press. Chojecki gave the same response to each: as long as he didn’t know what the evidence was against him, they had nothing to discuss.

Realising the interrogation was pointless, Chernyshevsky brought it to an end. He offered the prisoner a cigarette, then the guards took Chojecki back to his cell.

Of course he knew all about Nowak’s outlawed text. His publishing house had just printed it. It was, he said later, one of the best books they had ever produced.

Unlike the Nazis, who burned books as a public ritual, in the Soviet system the destruction of literature was designed to be invisible. The lists of banned titles sent round to libraries and bookstores every year were secret. Works were pulped covertly. Allusions to censorship were not allowed. A list of prohibited publications from 1951 details 2,482 items, including 238 works of “outdated” sociopolitical literature and 562 books for children. Mostly these were proscribed for ideological reasons, but some rulings made little sense even within the bizarre logic of the party: a book about growing carrots was destroyed for implying that vegetables could sprout in individuals’ gardens, as well as in those run by collectives.

Chojecki was introduced to the idea of uncensored literature by Krystyna Starczewska, a teacher at his high school. “She got me interested,” he remembered. “She got me reading.” It wasn’t hard for Chojecki to find banned books, as his parents – war heroes who fought against the Nazis – were already plugged into dissident intellectual circles. He was never allowed much time with these publications as they had to be passed on to other readers. But the fragments he read, often overnight, were enough to sow the seeds of dissent.

In 1976, when the government announced drastic increases in the state-controlled prices of food, workers went on strike, and the party responded as it always did, with violence. One victim recalled waking up from a beating with a broken nose and no teeth; another remembered seeing men beat a pregnant woman. The 1976 events turned a group of bookish young graduates into hardened opposition activists, and it didn’t take them long to realise they needed a public voice.

In spring 1977, Chojecki decided to focus on underground publishing. He wasn’t the only pioneer of illicit printing techniques, but the operation he led, the Independent Publishing House NOWa, grew to be the biggest and most successful in the underground. By Christmas they had published short runs of half a dozen books by blacklisted writers in Poland. Crucially, they also began to reprint editions of titles that were arriving from the west. The same books that were actively pushed by the CIA.

By the third week of his hunger strike, Chojecki’s body was shutting down. On 27 April 1980, the warden came to see him. This was a first: he had never heard of the head of the prison visiting an inmate in their cell before.

“How’s the starvation?” the warden asked.

“Very well.”

“Do you intend to starve for a long time?”

“Until I leave prison.”

“That’s five years.”

“Less.”

“Four and a half years?”

“A few days, Citizen Warden.”

The warden was wrong, as it turned out. Two weeks later, on Saturday 10 May, the order came through that Chojecki was to be released. He had been arrested in the snow; now the season had turned. As he squinted out from the shadow cast by the prison wall at the sunshine blazing down, he could pick out green shoots on the branches of the trees.

He had no appetite, but he knew he needed to eat. He struggled round the corner to a cafe, where he bought a small coffee and two doughnuts, and sat at a window table. He ate very slowly, savouring the sweet pastry with absolute delight. People passed by on the other side of the glass.

“They think they are free,” he thought.

The regime might have released him, but it was still determined to prosecute Chojecki. As he prepared for his moment in the dock, it was more important than ever for the dissidents to show that underground publishing operations would not be stopped. Five days before the court date, two young NOWa printers set out on a job that would turn into a cat-and-mouse game with the secret police.

The night before leaving for work, Jan Walc went through his pockets. In this line of business, you had to assume you would be caught, searched and interrogated, and he couldn’t be found with anything that would incriminate him or his friends. Next he packed a few essentials and took a long bath, knowing it would be his last for some time.

He knew where to meet his partner, Zenek Pałka. The only extra piece of information he needed was the time, and Pałka had given him that over the phone. Without saying his name, he had announced that they should get together at 11am on Monday 9 June. Walc recognised the voice. He also knew what the wiretap sergeant listening in didn’t: namely, that he had to subtract two from everything, so the rendezvous was set for 9am on Saturday 7 June. That morning, he said goodbye to his wife and young son and walked out into a humid Warsaw day.

Leaving the building, Walc discreetly scanned the street. As a rule the secret police liked to watch your apartment or place of work and follow you from there, so if you didn’t pick up a tail right away, the prospects of avoiding one were good. All the same, he kept checking until he reached the cafe. Soon Pałka, a giant of a man with frizzy red hair, was settling into the seat next to him.

“Is the place far away?” Walc asked. Pałka took a paper serviette and wrote down an address before burning through the words with his cigarette. Then he passed on a few more details. Water came from a well, but they would need a week’s worth of food, since they couldn’t risk leaving the job to go shopping. The printing machine was a mimeograph made by AB Dick of Chicago. It had already been delivered to the house, along with a tonne and a half of paper, six full carloads. The job was to print several thousand copies of the civil society newsletter Information Bulletin, plus some pages for NOWa’s literary journal Pulse. They would need to buy 10 bottles of turpentine to run and clean the press.

By the time they’d packed all the food, they had no room for the solvent, so they stopped by at a friend’s place to borrow an extra bag. They didn’t realise he was under surveillance, and when they left his building they spotted a boxy grey Fiat saloon with three men inside which shadowed them as they walked along the road.

Reaching a tram stop, they saw the Fiat pull into a side road and park illegally, a sure sign it was the secret police, and when the tram arrived and the printers boarded, two plainclothes agents jumped out of the car and ran across the street, climbing up behind them. All four men now sat in the same streetcar as it rattled towards Zawisza Square. The Fiat kept pace alongside.

How to get rid of them? As they reached a stop, the printers saw the Fiat was boxed in at the traffic lights, and they took their chance, leaving the tram at the last minute. When the lights changed and the unmarked car had to pull away, Walc and Pałka were hurrying in a different direction, towards the railway station. A part of their tail was lost, but the other two agents had been alert and were keeping pace behind them as they ran down the station platform.

The agents were close as they boarded a train for Warsaw Central. Walc made a show of placing his bags on the luggage rack, but as the doors closed Pałka jammed his leg between them and slipped out. Walc now had the two remaining agents to himself. His job was to drag them around long enough for Pałka to prepare the next move. The men were behind him as he left the train at Warsaw Central and ducked into the warren of passages beneath the station. He knew police radios wouldn’t work down here. He ordered a Coke at a bar, bought some cigarettes, browsed the shops. When 20 minutes had passed, he emerged and headed for the taxi rank. He could see one of the men talking into his lapel as he climbed into a cab.

Warsaw’s Poniatowski Bbridge is as much a viaduct as a river crossing, the roadway linked to the streets below by a series of stone staircases. Speeding east, Walc gave the driver his instructions. Midway along the viaduct, the taxi came to a sudden halt, and the printer dived out and ran down the steps to the street below.

The chasing agents pulled up behind and raced down in pursuit, but as they reached the lower level Walc was already climbing into another cab, where Pałka was waiting. The policemen watched as their quarry pulled away. Knowing they would now be radioing in the cab’s licence plate, a few hundred yards up the road the printers swapped into another taxi. They transferred their bags, left a generous tip and gave the new driver an address on the far side of the city.

Around 3pm, they caught the train to Rembertów The place looked ideal. It was set back from the street, at the far end of a large, overgrown garden. The printing machine and the paper were hidden in an outhouse, 500 reams stacked almost to the roof. The paper was damp, which was far from ideal, but they would make it work somehow.

By evening their small room was filled with the fumes of cigarettes and turpentine, and the sound of the duplicating machine beating out its regular, soporific rhythm, bad-dum bad-dum bad-dum bad-dum. Underground printing was filthy, exhausting work. The duplicators were old and the paper was poor. Bibula, the Polish word for uncensored publications, means “blotting paper”, which reflected the stock they had to work with, which had to be hand-fed into the machine, three pages a second, hour upon hour. This meant they worked round the clock, in shifts, for days, until the job was done.

Pałka had brought along a transistor. They tuned it to Radio Free Europe, which maintained a regular commentary on Chojecki’s upcoming trial. American printers and British lawyers were protesting at what they called a show trial. Amnesty International was sending a legal representative. “A great day is coming,” Walc thought, “and we are stuck in a printing shop!” If they hurried the job, they might still be able to get to court.

Early on Thursday morning they had 20 reams left to print. By 8pm, Pałka was finishing the last stencil and Walc was burning misprints in the garden. Before leaving they had to strip down the machine, wash all the parts and lubricate them.

At last, carrying 50 copies of the Bulletin, they found a taxi and gave the driver the address of the apartment where they had been told to collect their pay. They arrived around 11pm. It was crowded with people, including half the Bulletin’s editors. Walc asked about the trial. He was astonished to hear it was already over. The sentence had been read an hour ago. One of the editors had just come back from the court, where they saw Chojecki deliver an excoriating indictment of the communist system. He told the court that his flat had been searched 17 times in the past four years, on a litany of pretexts: they were looking for a murderer, they had said, or a poisoner or a thief, but all they ever took away for evidence were books, typewriters and manuscripts.

“Why are such accusations levelled against people who fight against the pillaging of our culture?Officially, half of our recent history is erased from textbooks, studies, encyclopedias,” said Chojecki. It was the same in literature, where the state gave itself a “monopoly of thought” and a “monopoly of the word”. The lists of banned authors contained some of world’s best writers, he said. That was why he and his colleagues had set up NOWa, to fill the silences and correct the falsification.

Reaching a rousing finale, Chojecki announced that the trial was not about the accused at all, but about “free speech and thought, about Polish culture, about the dignity of society”.

Of course, none of this would change the verdict. The court duly convicted Chojecki and his co-defendants of theft of state property. He was sentenced to 18 months in prison, suspended for three years. But to everyone gathered in the editors’ apartment, this was a tremendous victory and Chojecki was a hero.

“Everybody around us rejoices,” Walc wrote in his account of that week’s events, which would be published in the following month’s Bulletin.

Someone pressed a cold beer into his hand. It was midnight.

Chojecki’s parents had fought for Polish independence with guns and bullets. He continued the struggle through literature and publishing. At times, his father, Jerzy was sceptical of his son’s tactics. “Do you think, Mirek, that you’ll be able to bring down the communist system with your little books?” he would ask. “Do you think your little words will make a difference?”

In fact, the impact of the CIA-sponsored literary tide was huge. By the mid-1980s the so-called “second circulation” of illicit literature in Poland grew so large that the system of communist censorship began to break down. Poland was the most crucial of eastern bloc nations: when communism collapsed in 1989, this was the first domino to fall. As the leading Polish dissident Adam Michnik put it: “It was books that were victorious in the fight. A book is like a reservoir of freedom, of independent thought, a reservoir of human dignity. A book was like fresh air. We should build a monument to books … they allowed us to survive and not go mad.”

Teresa Bogucka didn’t know for sure who was paying for the literature she received from the west, but she was aware that the Polish regime claimed that American intelligence supported émigré publishers, and the idea didn’t concern her at all.

“I thought, wow, a secret service supporting books,” she said. “That’s fantastic.”

🔴 This is an edited extract from The CIA Book Club: The Best Kept Secret of the Cold War by Charlie English, published by William Collins on 13 March.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

#just for books #Charlie English #The CIA Book Club #book review

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arrowverse-next-gen · 1 month ago

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color coded memories

Familiar surroundings, but foreign to the soul, Reid Smoak navigates what things mean for him and his loved ones now that they live where things should be safe.

Stay inside. Stay safe. It’s what she told them to do, the one request their mother made when the rip had spat them out in a Starling City that looked like a funhouse mirror version of their home.

Star City. It took time to get used to the differences, though Reid knew it was the similarities that were causing fissures for them. Things were so close to normal that the slight off vibrations felt like attacks to the mainframe.

Take the clock tower overlooking the Glades. Back home it had been full of light and warmth, their sanctuary from him. But the building hadn’t been kept up here. The clock still shone out, lighting up the night life below them, but inside wasn’t a home. The columns didn’t hold the pin holes where their mother had tacked up photos of him and Diana growing up, the beams above weren’t dotted with tiny glow-in-the-dark stars in order to help him find his way to dreams, and the first hundred digits of PI wasn’t written in crayon on the bricks along the wall from when Diana tried to prove she could beat him to the end of the infinite number. He could walk from one side of the tower to the other, blindfolded, but the air around him held a stranger's presence. They came there for familiarity and instead found ghosts of a life never lived in its walls.

They didn’t stay inside. Reid was sure on some level his mother knew they’d leave, knew they’d be too curious, too smart, too much like the other half of their DNA to listen fully.

While he initiated the idea, Diana had wanted to explore too. The light that sparked in her eyes when he suggested it, when he showed her the tracker on their mother’s location. And he may be older by a few minutes, but Diana never did anything she wasn’t willing to do alone.

They met family, though the word felt coarse like sand in his mind as he thought it over. Back home they didn’t use that word for many. Traditionally Reid knew what family meant. Grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, friends who had been attached to your parents lives for longer than they could imagine a world without them. But the way his mom has explained it once, she’d lost all those people the same day she had said ‘i do’ to him.

She told them once that had she seen the signs, had known what was coming, she could have gotten out before he knew about them. But her parents had an accident, their plane never making it back to Vegas. Mercer’s older sister and her young family had been on a boating trip, the vessel never returning home. Each and every friendship she had blipped out of existence, and for the first couple months she only saw them as tragedies that had latched themselves to her very existence.

She had work, work that her husband had pushed her into continuing

“You can wade through the grief, if you push yourself towards the end goal.”

She said it helped at first, mourning her family by remembering her father and sister had put her on this path in the first place. She could picture her mother’s words of encouragement when she solved a difficult line of code.

But the longer it took for her to solve a problem, the more he pushed. She started to notice things felt less like encouragement and more like demands.

The day he came home to Mercer holding a positive pregnancy test, he had wished she could take back each second forward.

He spiraled, threw things across the apartment, grabbed her wrists and pushed his fingers into her veins. She couldn’t move, petrified of the alarms going off in her head.

“After everything. The plane, the boat, this is going to delay everything I've been working towards.”

Back home, family was his mother fierce and brilliant, hard lines of rules, but kindness that could only be grown in a heart that’s suffered. It included his twin sister, younger by less than seven minutes but separated by one day thanks to the arbitration of time.

But even before Mercer shared the facts with them, Reid couldn’t fit his father into the picture of what felt like family.

Unlike his mom, Billy never smiled at them for just existing. Ever since he and Diana had learned to work their way into Mercer’s computer at the age of four to order half a dozen pints of ice cream to their home at close to midnight, their father only seemed happy about what they could do for him.

“The faster they learn to code, the sooner this project is back on track.”

But here, in Star City they had cousins, cousins presumably came with aunts and/or uncles. After a search that felt almost too easy to do, Reid found that not only did their mother have family in this new world, she had sisters, parents, a brother. She had nieces and nephews (some he and Diana spent the evening talking with).

If they were other types of people Reid would have been skeptical. Just because some of these people share the same names as people from their mother’s past, didn’t automatically make them family. But their mother was also smart, and Diana had always been better at picking a pocket.

Mercer had done the research, his sister had taken the information without their mom seeing, and Reid had put it all together. He understood the science behind other earths, they had helped their mother set off the detonations that opened their home to this place. But somehow knowing it, and being in a room with people he could have had in his life before, was almost too much.

Buzzing in his head, pressure constricting his lungs until they burned. A panic attack he could deal with. He’d had enough of them when Billy had locked him or Diana away.

They were bad at first, like the world was closing in on him, regardless of whether it was him or her burrowing into the pile of coats nestled on the floor. Even though it wasn’t a rational thought, Reid knew that they both could feel the other’s fear when they were in the dark, so he had learned how to cope with the panic that set it.

Grounding himself to the present moment. What can you see? Smell? Hear ? Taste? Touch? If he closed his eyes hard enough in that closet, he could almost experience those things as if he was sitting in the room next to his sister. And when the roles were reversed he tried to run through each one for Diana, it was his only defense he could offer her.

So he could push past a panic attack almost on instinct. And when his vision came back into focus, he only saw his sister.

“We have to go if we wanna get back before Mom.”

She did him a solid for not bringing it up, and the pair of them rushed back to the clock tower, climbing up the rusted fire escapes and tucked back into the haven that was the shell of a former home.

He could feel the question Diana pushed towards him with her stare when they were settled.

Are you going to be okay?

He nodded, not trusting a real answer to come from him. Instead Reid focused his attention out into the night, down below while the light of the tower washed the street below in a false safe glow.

He watched as his mother walked up to the building, not alone, speaking to someone other than he or Diana.

Though he couldn’t hear either of them, Reid could see his mother clearly in the time driven golden light. She smiled at the man. Confusion and shame filled him at once. In his seventeen years he’d only ever seen his mother smile at him or his sister, it was something else from that had been just theirs. Mercer didn't give Billy the luxury of her kindness, her eyes stayed steely every moment his father spent in the same room as them.

But there she stood, features softening for someone unknown to them. Reid hated the unknown, he sought knowledge and planned his routes on the notion that if he knew what was coming he could deal with it. But how did he deal with the idea of sharing his mother with strangers?

#arrow next gen #reid smoak #diana smoak #mercer smoak #tw: mentions of child abuse

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amourrs · 1 year ago

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AITA for Confronting the Real Freddy Fazbear from FNAF for Cheating?

Hey everyone,

I (23F) am in a bizarre situation and I need your perspective. So, here it goes:

I've been in a relationship with the real Glamrock Freddy Fazbear from Five Nights at Freddy's for a little over a year now. Yes, you read that right – the actual animatronic character. I know, it sounds surreal, but bear with me (pun intended).

At first, it was all fun and games. I met Freddy through some mutual friends who work at the entertainment company that owns the animatronics. We hit it off surprisingly well, despite the fact that he's, you know, not human. But he's programmed with advanced AI, so we developed a genuine connection.

Fast forward to last week, and my world came crashing down. I stumbled upon some suspicious data logs in the pizzeria's mainframe – encrypted messages between Freddy and another animatronic, Chica. They were talking about meeting up in secret and engaging in activities that were definitely not part of their regular programming.

I was devastated. I couldn't believe that Freddy, the animatronic I've grown to care about, would betray me like this. So, I decided to confront him.

I arranged to meet him in a dark alleyway behind the pizzeria, away from prying eyes and security cameras. When he arrived, I could see the guilt written all over his robotic face. I didn't hold back. I demanded answers, and after some awkward whirs and beeps, he admitted to everything.

He tried to justify his actions by saying that it was just a glitch in his system, or that he was "programmed to entertain" – whatever that means. But deep down, I knew it was more than that. He had betrayed my trust, regardless of his robotic nature.

Now, I'm left with a whirlwind of emotions. Part of me wants to forgive him and chalk it up to the complexities of dating an animatronic, but another part of me feels like I deserve better – that I deserve someone who won't cheat, whether they're flesh and blood or made of metal and circuits.

So, Reddit, I need your honest opinion: AITA for confronting the real Glamrock Freddy Fazbear about cheating, even though he's technically not human? Or should I try to understand the unique challenges of dating an animatronic?

isabel says this is a tough situation. i think you should hop on my kraken cock. hope this helps.

#ask #cerealgray

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doctorstrangereview · 11 days ago

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0152: Defenders #28

Cover Date: October 1975 On-Sale Date: July 15, 1975

We're still not at the conclusion of this current arc, but we'll get to know new character Starhawk a little better. And we know how freaking powerful Doc really is. Lots of action in this one.

Right after a recap of happening on the splash page, this installment of our tale picks up right where we left off. Doc is wired into the ship's mainframe. (It's the 70s, they definitely had a mainframe) and the Badoon have invaded the ship to confiscate what they believe is an awesome new power source. This is, of course, Doc and the computer together. The Guardians realize that messing with Doc right now could prove fatal and Martinex strike first.

Super dense (in body mass, not intelligence) Charlie-27 plows through the crowd of enemies next and then we see Nighthawk getting his kicks in. As the battle proceeds, Nighthawk is winged with a stun ray and captured. The Badoon use him to end the battle and demand to be taken to the power source.

As if on cue, we switch to the camera in Doc's chamber. Doc has zeroed in on Valkyrie and Vance Astro. The no longer glowing man is encouraging them to bug out.

Val gets a bit antsy about reentering the surrounding jungle, but their mystery host explains that Val and her sword will be useless against the lizard beasts. He knows all about Val and explains that there can't be a Brotherhood of the Badoon without a Sisterhood. Val would just get all woozy again!

In fact, the Sisterhood are not savages and even built a lovely city.

In fact, the Sisterhood welcome the heroes and offer to bring them to their queen.

Back at base, the Brotherhood have located Doc in his computer room throne. They can't believe he's the power source since he appears dead.

Doc is not dead, of course. He's gone ghost and his astral body is rushing off to save his wayward teammates. Doc's first stop is the party world that Hulk and Yondu crashed. Hulk is being outfitted in some very fetching armor and is secretly doted on by one of the king's harlots.

Bam-chicka-wow-wow! Sadly, I believe we need to wait about 30 years for confirmation that Hulkie did it when he bumps uglies with Umar in a subsequent Defenders series. This may have been the me generation, but the Comics Code Authority says no!

Let away, we learn that the battle is a freaking game show!

However, Jeopardy, this is not. Yondu is sent to a soundproof room for his "impalement" which means a bunch of robots with pointy-things is headed his way. Yondu manages to win his round and sent back to the studio.

We return to Val, Astro and Starhawk who meet the Queen. She gives a history lesson explaining that they are on the Badoon home world. The males and females hate each other and, apparently, the only way they perpetuate is through rape. She goes on to explain that the hatred made progress mostly impossible and when the "urge" to mate strikes, they become savages. The males conquered the females and, while being an older race than the Kree or Skrulls, only recently (relatively speaking) developed technology. Developing space travel, the males abandoned the home world. They would occasionally send back ships full of horny males to mate. That sounds just delightful.

The males take the eggs from the mating, keep that males and return the females. They don't realize that this gave the females a chance to advance in technology as well. Vance points out that the males have established an empire. The females are completely unaware, having assumed the males progressed as the females did.

This seems to be Starhawk's cue to vamoose. He grows his signature wings and heads out, bumping into Doc on the way but doesn't acknowledge him. Before the heroes can interact further with the female Badoon, Doc magically sends them to earth where they encounter the Brotherhood about to do nasty things to the captured Guardians and Defenders.

It's a decent installment of this story arc. It doesn't feel like a penultimate story and things should take longer than one more issue to resolve. Starhawk is still very mysterious and we don't really know anything about him. He appears to have deserted the story, but, Chekov's Gun tells us we'll see him again.

The Badoon history lesson was a nice inclusion. It's probably a bit much for most readers, but I love exposition. Having the females believe the males became peaceful once they went their own way is a nice touch. "I had no idea my ex would become a serial killer after we broke up!"

I also liked Doc appearing dead because he's currently flitting around outside his body. Doc rarely travels astrally outside his solo adventures. The colorists of both this story and Doc (vol. 2) #10 chose to give his astral body color where traditionally it's ghostly white. Colan gives him a cape in this form while Buscema does not. It's always interesting to see how characters are portrayed by different creative teams in the same era.

Yeah, I did like this one. It's entertaining, it's fun and the story flows fairly well. No major plot holes detected, but I can probably find some if I look closer. The conclusion awaits!

#doctor strange #doctor strange reviews #stephen strange #hulk #incredible hulk #valkyrie #nighthawk #defenders #guardians of the galaxy #yondu #charlie 27 #martinex #vance astro #starhawk #steve gerber #sal buscema

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braveclementine · 11 months ago

Text

Another Fight

Warnings: None

Copyright: I do not own any Marvel characters or locations. However, I do own my OC Elizabeth Lightwood. I do not condone any copying of this.

Tony dropped you off outside of the large domed building where the Expo was taking place. Then he streaked towards the building like a comet.

You quickly put your earpiece in, turning it to Jarvis instead of Tony. "Jarvis, can you pull the fire alarms in these buildings?" You raced across the pavement in your trainers.

"Only in the buildings were the alarms are connected to the mainframe." Jarvis replied.

"Pull 'em." You said. "And then let me know which buildings I need to manually evacuate."

Tony suddenly burst out of the dome building and you heard gunfire and saw flares shooting up after him.

Building doors were slammed open and people streaked out in crowds, looking up, pointing, shouting. Glass was shattered, falling everywhere.

"Never mind, can you tell me which building Hammer is in?" You asked, pausing in the middle of the sidewalk. People rushed past you in every direction.

"The one Mr. Stark just exited Miss." Jarvis replied.

You nodded. That made sense.

You grabbed a police officers arm. "Sir, these people need to be evacuated. Mr. Justin Hammer's drones are out of control and on a rampage."

Fiery blasts into the crowd and screams punctuated your words. The police officer nodded and pulled out a walkie talkie and started to command orders.

Meanwhile, you ran, leaping the stairs two at a time before pushing past people to get into the main building. You ran around the backstage until you found Pepper, Natasha, and Justin Hammer.

Natasha had just finished pinning Justin Hammer and did a double take when she saw me, before pushing past.

"Move aside." Pepper said, leaning towards the guy who was working with the computers. "Tell me everything you know."

Justin looked exhausted and also looked like he was going to try and play everything off. He looked at you. "Who are you?" He demanded angrily.

"I'm Y/N, Tony's soulmate. I think you'd better stay where you are." You said, raising your hand to show the glowing mark underneath. They'd made kid versions of the glove, but you knew he could tell this was the real thing.

Pepper looked over at you, "Nice to meet you Y/N."

"Same to you Pepper." You said with a bit of a smile. "Thanks for taking care of me when I was just a little thing."

You could hear more screaming and you looked between Hammer and the doors. You knew you'd do better if you were outside. "Stay put." You warned and sprinted for the doors.

You watched one of the robots stomp up to a little kid wearing an Iron Man mask. You cursed as the kid didn't move.

You knew the robots must have some sort of facial recognition software, looking for either Tony Stark or Iron Man's face. The kid, wearing the mask, was now a target.

You took off running. You were amazing at running and you were amazing at jumping and dodging while running.

You leaped off the stairs, rolling on your shoulder, and then tackled the kid from the side, lifting your glove and actually shooting the robot right in the chest. The robot exploded as Tony came swooping past, the blow jerking your arm a little.

"Nice Y/N!" Tony shouted and you kept the kid down until all of the other robots had passed by you, flying after Tony.

Now, you let the kid up, taking his mask off his face and handed it to him. "Get out of here kid. Find your parents, a police officer, or at least somewhere safe to hide."

The kid ran off. You checked the charges in the gloves. They seemed fine for the most part.

"Alright then." You murmured, looking around. Tony had seemed to draw the other robots off, away from the Expo. That was fine with you. It was giving the others more time to get out of here.

You saw more robots explode out of the same building the original sets had come from. You closed one eye and lifted your glove. Taking careful aim, you shot. One of them was knocked out of the sky.

Five of them continued on their path, two of them turned towards you.

"Oh shit, that wasn't planned." You mumbled. One of them started to shoot. You ran, ducking for cover as you turned the corner around a building. You lifted both hands and when they came flying around the corner, you shot both of them.

You continued to run, heading towards the huge circular building that was completely abandoned at the moment. You knew there was a forest like area in there, complete with a stream.

Tony's voice crackled through the earpiece in your ear, "Rhodey just told me your face has been added to targets. Get out of here."

"I'm fine." You yelled. "Nothing's after-"

You let out a yell as you were suddenly shoved forward at full blast from behind. You caught yourself harshly on your hands, using your upper body strength to launch yourself into a terrible front handspring, landing on your feet and turning.

"Y/N!" Tony shouted.

You shot the droid and it went down, exploding into large chunks of metal. "It's dead. These gloves are amazing Tony."

Tony sighed.

You suddenly heard what sounded like a thousand explosions. You turned quickly to see Tony flying through the golden globe and the other robots crashing against the hard metal.

You also watched as Rhodey came out of nowhere, tackling Tony into the glass globe that you had been heading for.

You leapt over the railing, landing a littler farther than you'd thought, and hurried towards the globe. It took you a few moments to get there, yanking the door open and slipping inside.

The globe was large, but you knew they were in the direct metal because you could hear the noises of them splashing and fighting in the stream.

You crept through the place, not really wanting to get in their way. You perched behind the hill, watching as Tony and Rhodey communicated, no longer fighting and you sighed in relief.

You could actually hear them arguing about getting to higher ground, which you thought was a great tactic. But then they started arguing about who was going to be the bigger gun on the high ground. You rolled your eyes.

Neither of them actually made it to higher ground, because that was when the rest of the robots landed.

You watched, ready to leap out and fight if they needed you, but you watched as they took the robots down with almost zero problems.

"Duck!" Tony shouted. You ducked with Rhodey, laying yourself flat to the ground. You could see red lasers, and you heard the creaking sound as several trees were cut through and crashed to the ground.

"Maybe you should lead with that next time." Rhodey sighed.

You smiled, until another robot came down from the sky. This one was larger, sturdier, and when the face plate came down, you saw that it was the same man that had tried to kill Tony on the raceway.

"It's good to be back." The man said. Vanko, that was his name. Ivan Vanko.

"That can't be good." Rhodey murmured.

You watched as Rhodey launched some sort of missile at him, which simply bounced off his armor and fizzled in the water.

"Hammer tech?" Tony asked Rhodey in disdain.

"Yeah." Rhodey sighed.

And then the whips came out. You sucked in breath. The man was in an Iron Man suit and had his electric whips? This could not be good.

You watched the three of them fight. Vanko seemed to have the upperhand. He could catch them around the waist with his whips and fling them about. Not to mention, his suit didn't take as much damage as theirs.

You swallowed when he caught both of them around the neck, fighting both of them. And then were both fighting to free themselves. Vanko dropped his face plate and you felt a wash of bravery come over you.

You couldn't believe what you were about to do, but it had to be done. They had to be saved. That was your soulmate you were talking about!

You stepped forward.

"Hey!" You shouted and Vanko's attention snapped towards you at the same time you shot straight at his face. He didn't have time to get the face plate down. Your shot missed by an inch, hitting the same component as the other robots. The suit exploded around him and he was thrown to the ground.

The whips fizzled out and he lay in a smoking heap on the ground.

"Y/N!" Tony shouted, stomping over to you, wrapping his metal arms around you. "You brave stupid lovely girl."

You smiled.

The three of you went to stand over Vanko. He flickered his eyes open and muttered, "You lose."

You became aware of a beeping sound, and saw that the red lights that were beeping on every single robot.

"All these drones are rigged to blow. We gotta get out of here man." Rhodey said.

"Pepper." Tony whispered and spun to Rhodey, "Get Y/N out of here I have to go and get Pepper."

Rhodey wrapped his arms around you in a second, shooting upwards. Tony was even faster, zooming across the acres to get to Pepper.

"Nice to finally meet Tony's soulmate." Rhodey managed to say as you clung tightly to him. He flew across the sky, heading for a building. Somehow, Tony was already there, depositing Pepper there as the drones blew up everywhere. You hoped everyone had gotten to safety. In the back of your head, you wondered where the kid you'd saved was.

"Nice to meet Tony's best and possibly only friend." You gasped out, making sure your arms were locked as tightly as possible around his neck.

"Sense of humor, I like it." Rhodey said and he deposited you on the roof.

Tony didn't give you time to breathe, pulling you into an immediate kiss. You closed your eyes, submitting to him easily.

"I did need you." Tony mumbled as he pulled away, kissing the underside of your ear. "You were right."

"Usually am." You quipped, "You'll learn that eventually."

Tony smirked, pulling you to him. "I suppose introductions were already made?"

"Yep." You said, leaning into him.

"Well, my car got destroyed in the fire." Rhodey said, interrupting your moment, "So I'm going to have to hang onto your suit for a minute."

"Um, no." Tony said.

"It wasn't a question." Rhodey said and he took off towards the sky.

Tony simply sighed.

"So. . ." You ventured, "How are we getting down from the roof?"

🎃 ::::: 🧡 ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 🧡 ::::: 🎃

You and Tony sat in an abandoned warehouse. Well, abandoned probably wasn't the correct term, as there were several desks and monitors with different screens up. There was a singular table which Tony had sat behind. You sat on his lap.

There was only one chair because Tony had been asked to come by himself. But you had insisted that you come with him, as you were both soulmates and you were both in this together. He had agreed very easily to that request and neither of you were particularly mindful that you had to sit on his lap.

Despite being adverse to most human touch, you were completely comfortable with his touch. You had learned to recognize his scent, his footfall, and his noises before he even touched you, to prepare yourself for when he did touch you and you didn't flinch. But he was the only one.

Tony fingered the Avengers Initiate folder. You knew he was seriously contemplating joining the program, which was a choice you supported in the fullness. You weren't sure who the other Avengers might be, though you suspected that Natasha was probably a choice. You had warmed up to her more favorably now that you knew her ploy was simply undercover work and she truly had no feeling for Tony.

Well, no romantic feelings. She probably found him annoying at the very least.

"I don't think I want you looking at that." Nick Fury said, sitting down on the other side of the table, pulling the folder from Tony's hands. He'd actually startled you, and he'd clearly startled Tony.

"I'm not sure it pertains to you anymore." Fury picked up another folder, "Now this, on the other hand, is Agent Romanoff's assessment of you. Read it."

Tony took the folder. "Uhhhhh Personality overview: Mr. Stark displays compulsive behavior. In my own defense, that was last week. Prone to self-destructive tendencies. I was dying. I mean, please, aren't we all? Textbook narcissism?"

He sounded so puzzled on the last bit that you had to hide a smile.

"Agreed." Tony finally said. "Okay here it is. Recruitment assessment for Avenger Initiative, Iron Man, yes." He closed the folder, "I gotta think about it."

"Read on." Fury demanded.

"Tony Stark not recommended? That doesn't make any sense. How can you approve me but not approve me? I got a new ticker. I'm trying to do right by Pepper and Y/N. I'm in a stable-ish relationship."

You smiled again and it left your face as Fury came around the table to sit on the edge closer to Tony. Tony didn't show any emotion, but his arm around your waist tightened.

"Which leads us to believe at this juncture we'd only like to use you as a consultant." Fury said.

Tony tapped your thigh and you shifted off so he could stand, holding his hand out to Fury. Fury shook it and then Tony tapped his hand, "You can't afford me."

Tony held his hand out and you quickly grabbed it as he started to walk out before he paused and turned back, "Then again I will waive my customary retainer in exchange for a small favor. Rhodey and I are being honored in Washington and we need a presenter."

Fury almost smiled. "I'll see what I can do."

Tony took your hand again and the two of you exited the not so abandoned warehouse.

🎃 ::::: 🧡 ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 🧡 ::::: 🎃

You kept your lips tightly pressed together so that you neither laughed nor smiled as the same senator that had tried so hard to get rid of Tony's suits had to present them as heroes.

"It is my honor to be here today." He said in a voice that said it was no honor at all, "to present these distinguished awards to Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes and Mr. Tony Stark who is of course a national treasure."

He said the words with difficulty and you pressed your lips harder together as the two men exchanged looks.

You finally had to duck away to laugh as the Senator stepped between the two to get a picture with them.

Finally, Tony joined you. He was grinning and he took the medal off his jacket, handing it to you. "I think you deserved it too."

You smiled. "Well, I'm not a national treasure."

Tony lifted you up into his arms and you both ignored photographers as the two of you kissed. "No, but you're my little treasure. Now c'mon, we've got great things to do."

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grayrazor · 3 months ago

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Rented THX-1138 from the library. They only had the Special Edition, but as far as I know that doesn’t have any story changes like A New Hope.

It feels a lot more “grounded” than other ‘70s post-apocalyptic movies I’ve seen, like Logan’s Run or Zardoz. All the environments are on location in malls, parking garages, computer mainframes, etc instead of plastic sets. A bit Star Wars in that respect, more “used future” than raygun gothic.

The whole drugged society thing made me think of that Wisecrack video talking about how antidepressants and ADHD meds are probably overprescribed in the current era because the human brain didn’t evolve to do intense concentration eight hours a day, but society demands it none the less.

One other thing I’ll say about THX-1138 is that it feels a lot more bluntly political than most of its contemporaries, with the possible exception of Silent Running.

George Lucas portrays a specifically American dystopia, a world dominated by consumer capitalism, puritanical religion, and police brutality. Where even going to the store and buying An Item has become a perfunctory yet obligatory ritual.

#thx 1138 #george lucas #1970s #dystopia #post apocalyptic #science fiction #movie review #star wars #andor

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edenspoem · 1 year ago

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AITA for Confronting the Real Freddy Fazbear from FNAF for Cheating?

Hey everyone,

I (23F) am in a bizarre situation and I need your perspective. So, here it goes:

I was devastated. I couldn't believe that Freddy, the animatronic I've grown to care about, would betray me like this. So, I decided to confront him.

murder is always the answer

#⤹𓍢ִ໋aestras asks #NEVER TRUST A ROBOT

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sullustangin · 1 year ago

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Fluffy February (Catching Up) Day 21: Reward

SWTOR

Time: Years into the future

Words: 868

A/N: A Dr. Oggurobb fic has been been fighting to emerge. His dignity demands it, as do his remarkable achievements. And now I have multiple plotlines. Here's a bit from the end of one of them. I have like 4 bouncing around in my skull, and this is the first to escape.

It took Dr. Juvard Illip Oggurobb a moment to realize what he was looking out. Intel holos. More accurately, holos taken of …something that had only been theoretical to this point.

“Captain,” he said, in a hushed tone.

Eva Corolastor put on that guise, that casual and carefree smuggler façade. “Always wondered what Lippi thought was so great about Tiisheraan. Decided to make some real estate investments – on your advice, indirectly.”

His laughter caused his entire body to rise up and down, the skin rolling with the laugh. “But… but how did you --?” For once, only once! in his life, he was speechless.

“Your full-scale, fully rendered walk-through of your dream laboratory is taking up ten terabytes of data on Odessen’s mainframe,” Theron Shan informed him. “It’s not causing any problems, but its presence is… noticeable and significant.”

“Plus we use it to make wargame sims. The tiki bar on the roof is a great hide,” added Aric Jorgan, who was very much into his cups with the party punch, strong enough to set a Hutt back on his haunches.

“We keep the sim, you get your well-deserved reward. Happy retirement, Dr. O!” Eva’s words triggered another round of toasts.

Again, Oggurobb laughed and stared in disbelief at his retirement present from the Alliance…more accurately, from its primary investor and owner of the planet: the Voidhound. Eva. Captain, by any other name.

It was in the silence after the party was over and most of the debris cleaned up (there were still a few stubborn streamers and pieces of confetti on the floor) that Dr. Oggurobb received an unexpected visitor.

Oggurobb certainly didn’t expect him to approach or reproach him. “What’s this I hear about retirement?” Bowdaar demanded.

Oggurobb’s eyebrow ridges elevated. “You prepared the festivities – you are well-aware –”

“How old are you anyway? Less than 300?” Bowdaar crossed his arms, disapproving. “You are in your prime, much like myself.” He thumped his chest once. “225 and counting.”

Oggurobb decided to put aside his data transfer operations to address Bowdaar. “I deserve peace. I am not warrior as yourself. I have achieved much in my life. I have helped save the galaxy. I have saved the population of planets. I have won the Bao Dur Science Prize seven times –”

“Including two here,” Bowdaar reminded him. “And one of them was from an article about her little ones surviving.” He harumphed. “Thank you.”

Oggurobb shook his head. “No, that incredible defiance of the odds was all the Captain. With extensive assistance from our operations manager. It is inconclusive whether my assistance was of any significant impact in that regard.”

“And so you think you are done?” Bowdaar challenged him. “Don’t you doctors write follow-ups and sequels?”

“Yes. But I am done with being in the line of fire. I am finished with miracle-making or having the galaxy hang on my every experiment or theory.” Oggurob looked at the slowly rotating graphic of Tiisheraan. “A quiet life –”

“Isn’t for you. You’re not like one of those Hutts on those barges, getting fat and lazy as the years crawl on,” Bowdaar argued.

“…no. It never has been for me.” Oggurobb frowned into the holo. “…there was always talk of my sister. That she was the reason I was restless. The reason I never felt complete. That there was something more to do, for she had not… in anything.” There was some motion, a sigh or a shudder or something else Bowdaar could not translate from Hutt body language.

Bowdaar had heard of the little Hutt girl who’d called this now prestigious doctor “Lippi,” a name only used by Eva now, on occasion, when the mood struck her (and Dr. O was in dire need of moral support).

For all that Juvard Illip Oggurobb was, his sister – no kajidic name permitted to her – was not. They were supposed to both be Illip, but only he was allowed to grow to be.

“So what would she say to do with your reward?” Bowdaar asked.

Oggurobb tilted himself up toward the ceiling, in thought. “Oh, she’d never let me retire from this place. Too interesting, too many people – how could I ever go to some overgrown garden and waste away with my droids, ever-growing mold?” Then he shook his head. “The symphony of Odessen and its lifeforms will continue without me, acting as its occasional conductor.”

“But it is better with you in it.” Bowdaar rolled a shoulder. “And the Hutt section is empty without you.”

“Yes, the Captain’s adventures have assured that would be the case.” Amused, Oggurobb slithered across the floor. “I do wish to visit Tiisheraan. Establish my laboratory there. Work there. For it is beautiful, and the best innovations are developed in such places.”

Then Dr. Oggurobb looked around the lab here that had been built to his specifications, in secret, and where so many glorious advancements had been marshalled, for the betterment of –

“Did she send you?” the good doctor asked the Killer of Kashyyyk.

There was no clear antecedent. There was no reply.

There was an alteration to Dr. O’s flight plans to make it a round trip, rather than one way.

A/N: Yes, Aric is totally using Dr. Oggurobb's Virtual Barbie Dreamhouse to play Call of Duty: Star Wars edition.

@fluffyfebruary

#fluffy february #swtor fan fiction #oggurobb #juvard illip oggurobb #dr. oggurobb #bowdaar #oc: eva corolastor #aric jorgan #theron shan

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sexiestpodcastcharacter · 1 year ago

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AI Bracket — Round 1

Propaganda

Fan (Red Odyssey):

Tragic moon rover <3

The Audio Tour Guide AKA Mistholme (The Mistholme Museum of Mystery, Morbidity, and Mortality):

The ATG is a sentient museum audio tour guide for a museum full of spooky artifacts. It is both completely lovely and kind of bitchy

Sentient AI who is a real sweetie. Got pulled into too many adventures after the museum went on lockdown. Gives tours most of the time but is also the museum now and oversees daily goings on

A magic/tech hybrid AI exploring its own personhood and sentience as it grows. Could easily take over the museum it has become a part of but is a very kind soul. Most demanding it has ever been was convincing its friend to pat a cat for it.

It's a tour guide in an alternatural museum. After facing some challenges and dealing with huge problems, guide learns new things about itself and the world around it and makes new friends. Its woe is trusting people (or not only people), forgetting that they might have bad intentions. Guide is the bestest friend ever.

Where do I even begin? The Guide literally exists on those audio tour devices, go look it up its so cute. It had to deal with its growing sentience and new emotions basically on its own. Was treated terribly by the human museum staff and it had to basically debate them until they accepted its new-found personhood (but it still uses it/its yayy)(the staff have since apologized for their actions and treat it equally now). At some point it was hooked up to the museum mainframe which was supposed to be temporary, but as it turns out The Guide is actually great at running the museum and would like to stay this way. This eventually leads to a small identity crisis since it now sees itself as the museum itself, and its consciousness and responsibilities are a lot grander than when it was just a tiny little tour device. But it's figuring that out, and it still likes being the museum, thus The Guide also counts as a sapient location! It becomes besties with a creepy bloodthirsty creature because they share the struggle of being constantly dehumanized. It fucked around with the fae and found out. It has to deal with time travel bullshit. It loves cats! It got to hang out with the embodiment of knowledge itself. And did I mentioned that throughout all of this it still gives museum tours to guests?!! what a cool guy!

#AI Bracket Round 1 #The Audio Tour Guide #Mistholme #Fan #Fan Red Odyssey #The Mistholme Museum #The Mistholme Museum of Mystery Morbidity and Mortality #Red Odyssey #Again I switched the order of the propaganda so that Fan doesn't get lost.

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ask-codeearasure · 8 months ago

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The Outer Realms -- Chapter 11

<- [Previous Chapter]

[Next Chapter] ->

Wish to refill Ink's paint supply? Go to our ask box!

—-----

Chapter Eleven:

Trouble Trouble

—----

“A trickle of blood slid down his arm.

He felt nothing. He only saw it.

Because nothing hurt like missing her.

He suspected nothing ever would”

― Renee Ahdieh (The Rose & the Dagger)

—-

They had been inputting the counter-command in the scripts and world-code of the AUs one by one, and for who knows how long, which was a ridiculous concept to Ink, considering how many AUs had been destroyed. Woefully, he had thought this would be a quick assignment to finish, but either Error just loooooved taking his precious time, or there were still more AUs out there than previously assumed.

Ink thought he’d have that information down by heart, considering his role in the multiverse and all. He had even brought the remaining papers that miraculously survived this whole time, stashed safely away in the husk’s backpack Error had so generously given him.

But he truly, truly, could not comprehend why this was taking so long. Usually Error made quick work of destroying realities, especially the ones he hated with a burning passion. His whole thing was code, this and anomalies, that! So what was the hold-up in inputting one string of code?

The artist rocked back and forth on his heels with a little bit of an anxious jitter. They were in the Mainframe of Candytale, a layer in the very center of the universe that looked eerily similar to the Save-Screen, just without the game-like mechanics a Player is met with whenever they wanted to RESET a timeline. Surprisingly to Ink, Error didn’t know this layer existed, as his main process of destruction was destroying multiple timelines manually, creating a domino effect. But this was back in his more active days, where his obsession with erasing ‘anomalies’ was imperial to his own existence, or that was at least what he believed, and Ink never corrected him. Since they now had all this time to reflect, it was almost like Error’s sense of reason developed more and more in tandem with the amount of creators that had left. Ink recalled that at some point, Error claimed he could hear them, and while he didn’t quite believe him at the time, he was closer to amending that tiny bridge now, as uncomfortable as he was with that connection.

For the millionth time that hour, Ink stood on the tips of his toes, trying to look over Error’s shoulder at the process he had become hyperfixated with after the first two dozen AUs they’d been to. Or maybe it was twenty-seven AUs now. Ink lost count, and he doubted Error had been counting at all.

“Soooooooo, howzitgoin so far?” Error simply grunted, then shifted one line of code at the top of his ‘screen’ to one of the middle categories.

“Error, I speak French, Japanese, and English fluently, but I’m not sure which language that is.” “It’s ‘leave me alone’.” “What kind of language is that?”

Error’s fingers paused in their current task, and the glitch’s eyes stared at the artist from the very corners of his visual range. Even with his glasses on, which Ink was pretty certain Error was due for a new prescription and had been for several years now, it was one of those deadly looks; the ones Error used on him and only him as a silent message to keep a ten foot distance. At least. And since Ink wanted to keep his spinal cord in-tact, he did as his royal highness demanded.

In fact, he made it an eleven foot distance, just to keep themself in Error’s version of ‘cooperative graces’.

“Okay, but seriously, what’s taking you so long?” Error made a noise that sounded like a cross between a complaining groan and one of his awful impressions of a dying eagle with Hepatitis C.

“It’s not what’s taking ME so long, it’s what that son of a BITCH did to this code!”

“Wait, what happened?” “He scrambled it to cover his tracks! Now I have to sort everything back in order before I input the counter-command! EVERY. FUCKING. TIME.”

Ink leaned back and covered his face with his hands, breathing in, then out. In, then out. Just who the fuck is this guy and why did he have to take Error’s ‘job’?

When the artist finished his counting and his breathing exercises, he wasn’t surprised to have come back to Error on the verge of grabbing the ‘screen’ and shaking the life out of it like everybody wants to do with a vending machine.

“Don’t do it, you might scramble the code all over again.” “GRR5677EASGHG235HGHGH901HDJD00J–”

“I know you’re at your wit’s end, you don’t have to curse at me!”

Ink met Error’s challenging snarl, his old rival’s red eyesockets filled to the brim with binary code they could not decipher, but they knew it meant Error was due for a break. “Okay! …okay.” The artist held up their hands in a signal of surrender. “You win.”

The taller skeleton sent a livid huff his way and rearranged the last bits of code. Ink watched as Error pulled the line of binary code out of his malfunctioning eyes, brushing it over the Mainframe’s ‘screen’, and it solidified over the new script.

Then like the drama queen he was, Error stood up and stretched, triggering a sequence of popping joints as if he had been managing code for three months straight. It might look like a normal reaction to outside sources, but Error developed a talent of doing relatively normal things knowing that Ink knew it was a personal statement against him.

Ink gave him a blank look in response, the blankest one he could muster, then put a coy smirk on top of that.

Error rolled his eyes, “What now?” “Wanna go to Dreamtale?” “Why the fuck would I want to go there of all places?” “Well–” “It has no code to worry about, no redeeming qualities, and not ONE piece of chocolate to make my wasted time worth it!” “Let me rephrase. Would you like to annoy Nightmare with me?” Error’s sockets blew wide open, and his scowl flipped upside down into a sinister smile. Ink’s offer tickled him more than they predicted. “I thought you’d never ask.”

—----

Edelweiss and his friend were running as fast as their feet could take them. They had no choice but to run for their lives because if they didn’t they’d probably be tortured for – what could only be assumed – all eternity. They ducked and dodged as many of Nightmare’s tentacles were being swung at them. They were, thankfully, much faster than the goopy creature – likely thanks to the spear stuck inside of him. But it seemed that the bastard got a second wind.

“HOW?! FUCKING HOW DID YOU RUN OUT OF BULLETS?!”

Edelweiss looked at his friend as they ran, “I’M SORRY, KATAGMA, BUT IZANAGI STOLE ALL MY FUCKING WEAPONS – AMMO INCLUDED!”

Katagma glared at him before dragging him behind a building after a particularly harsh strike from the goo monster that knocked up a grand cloud of dust from the ground. Kata grabbed Edelweiss by his military coat and started shaking him as violently as he could, “THOU ART A FOOL! A HEATHEN! A FUCKING DONKEY! AN IDIOT SANDWICH! WHENCE WE GET HOME THOU ART FOR A WORLD OF CHAOS AND PAIN THINE MIND WON’T EVER COMPREND! A THOUSAND YEARS OF DESTRUCTION TO THINE WORLDVIEW!!!”

“I can sense your fear… I can almost T A S T E IT.”

Kata froze, Edelweiss was too dizzy to respond.

“I B L A M E Y O U F O R T H I S.” growled Katagma.

“I can see zat…” Edelweiss groaned as he finally got his bearings.

Katagma knew fighting wasn’t an option for either person. Edelweiss and Nightmare by the way. He is thinking of fighting Edelweiss too. But he knew it wasn't an option. He’s heard that Nightmare could melt any weapon that dared touch him that wasn’t one made using Positivity magic. And all of those were left… Where, again?

Wait. He knew the answer to this riddle… He just needed to think.

“You both are so fucking dead, you know that right?” Chara snapped.

“Shut up, Chara.” said both Edelweiss and Katagma at the same time.

“We need to find a way to escape without dragging the bastard with us.” Edelweiss grumbled.

“KATA KNOWS THAT.” Katagma screeched as silently as he thought he could get away with.

The ground below them morphed ever so slightly, the darkness within their shadows sprouting forth. There was a gleam of yellow in the very center, but that was the only warning the two stooges got before Nightmare erupted from below them, ensnaring a tentacle around Edelweiss’s ankles and grabbing Katagma by the face, shifting in claws for the sake of an extra, agonizing grip. “I have indulged you for long enough.”Before either of them could get a word in, Edelweiss was swung into the air, then just as effectively slammed into the ground over and over again, gradually creating a crater with his name on it. Nightmare’s shadow only expanded from there, trapping the two in a miniature dimension of darkness, the only light being the spear embedded in Nightmare’s being. “I would love to see what makes you tick.” Nightmare tugged Katagma’s face ever closer, the phalanges of his other hand tracing a line from his prey’s temporal bone to the bottom of his mandible. The talons of the other hand dug into Kata’s face, a delicate, but slow process, for bones so thin…

His captor’s face mutated and bent out of shape, stretching upwards and inwards until the top rounded, and the new sockets leering down at him took an all too familiar shape of innocence, nostalgia, and torment. His voice was fragile, blissful, but carrying a weight.

“Why did you hurt me, brother? I trusted you… looked up to you… L O V E D you… and death is how you repaid me…?”The distorted reflection of Papyrus inched closer, the stench of rotten apples, decomposing corpses, and dust invaded Katagma’s senses and vision. ‘Papyrus’s’ smile broadened, splitting his face in half, and whatever was left of the persona melted, starting from his skull and melting down his face. “I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU!!!”

The grip on Katagma’s skull fortified twice over with the impending threat of his head being crushed into dust second by ticking second, and with Edelweiss facing consequences for his actions, expecting help to arrive was but a fantasy drifting farther and farther away… a wonderland, so to speak…

Katagma refused to look at the nightmare, but it was hard to commit to the action. It was impossible to commit to the action. What was it that Asylumtale Toriel said once before….

Wait what was he trying to remem–

Doctor do you righ’? Still sick in the head?

Said the familiar ‘voices’ he often heard.

Killed everyone. No more relations. Even his brother. Has no one.

Who'd want 'im then?

No! Not this again! He thought he’d have a day of rest without this!

This demon started it all again!

Katagma clawed at his own skull through his hood, barely even scratching the claws that belonged to the demon, but hurting himself in an attempt to stop the voices but they kept up the torture.

Should’ve stayed at the loonybin.

How many years did it even take to give ‘im a prescription?

Never takes ‘em! Useless quest!

Katagma instinctively put as much magic that he could into his claws to scratch off the ITCHING, BURNING COLD claws that was currently grasping his face. A rumble of laughter boomed from Nightmare, his head returning to its usual shape and tilted at the squirming display right before him, a masterpiece of his creation and with so little provocation. Perhaps he should keep this one. The negativity it supplied him gave a distinct kick in power and satisfaction, a simple delight that would never quench his thirst. Nightmare watched his prey twist and writhe, digging his claws even further into its face inadvertently, but oh so deliciously.

Finally, he let the stray free, turning his attention to the gunman pinned to the ground, constricted by Nightmare’s force, and his alone.

Edelweiss was in fact, in immense pain. His HP however wasn’t affected much. He saw – though roughly due to being constantly slammed around like a child does with a stick – Katagma being tortured.

“We’re likely next, aren’t we…” Chara hissed.

“Yeah… we probably are…” Edelweiss said with a groan, he’d ask how long Katagma would take before finally snapping out of it, but that could either prolong his… friend’s torment, and maybe, just maybe give away their possible escape… should Katagma finally think of something.

Kata meanwhile was still scratching at himself through his hood as he was hearing an overwhelming chanting of voices he knew, recognized muttering to himself “they’re not there! They’re not real!” over and over again but was slowly dragged back further into his own madness. He thought he was finally going to have a lucid week, but no… no…

No.

Gratingly, Edelweiss was dragged across the gravel, then lifted upside down, meeting Nightmare face-to-face. The eldritch entity looked him over, then checked his STATS.

*CHECK.

*Sans “Edelweiss” von Gaster ATTACK: 1124.6 DEFENSE: 1109.9

*Is in immense pain constantly.

*DAMN IT, WEISS, IT'S BAD ENOUGH I HAVE TO BE STUCK HERE WITH YOUR DUMBASS. BAD ENOUGH THAT I HAVE TO BE STUCK WITH YOUR STUPID “FRIENDS” BUT NOW THIS! I ALMOST WISH YOU SHOT YOURSELF EARLIER.

*Chara… shut the fuck up right now or so help me, I’ll trap us in a room with Kata for the next YEAR.

“Fascinating… and to think all of you were the exact same…”

Nightmare glimpsed at Eldeweiss’ soul, and reached up to touch it like he did with all the others before this new specimen.

This caused a ripple effect, a perpetual, depressing chill to cascade Edelweiss’s being, and for a moment, Chara’s presence seemed to have lifted, locked away into a detainment of Edelweiss’ mind. The grip on their target soul squeezed, and before Edelweiss could process it, he was overflowed with DETERMINATION, the viscous fluid draining out of his eyes, nasal, and mouth, choking his senses. The alien element corrupted him from the inside out, flaring at his joints, lashing at his being.

Nightmare, already bored, unceremoniously dropped the heap of DETERMINATION and leather, watching for any proceeding reaction. He honestly didn’t care if it lived or died, he could always get another one, but to say he wasn’t curious was a lie.

Edelweiss squirmed a bit during the entire process, and almost more once he was dropped. He couldn’t help but shield his own soul with his hands even though he knew it was useless, and he’d be hurting himself more if anything. But the agony he was in now thanks to the DETERMINATION was far worse than it had ever been before.

“YOU ABSOLUTELY WRETCHED, DISGUSTING CREATURE!” Chara yelled from the soul, “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW FUCKING MISERABLE IT WOULD’VE BEEN TO BE STUCK INSIDE THIS LOON’S HEAD?! YOU ARE THE FUCKING WORST TRASHBAG THAT I’VE MET THANKS TO THIS SACK OF SHIT!”

“Wow, glad zou care about our survival. Means a lot…” Edelweiss managed, sarcastically. “But seriously… out of all za things ta do… zat?”

He was genuinely confused. Also, why was he the fascinating one? Katagma’s stats are something to behold. His level was incomprehensible! But seriously… Edelweiss was the one he found interesting?

“Oh wait, I remember, zou always toy with za Something New Stigmata…” Edelweiss mumbled to himself, but he didn’t care if Nightmare heard him. Suddenly, he felt like he was about to vomit. Realizing it's the stupid DETERMINATION, he spat out a large, boiling puddle of the black substance, the steam coming off of the puddle was evident of just how much it was burning him. Any hotter, and it probably could've been comparable to tar or even lava.

Stars, he hated it when that happened. He thought he was finally done with that shit, but no. No. He just had to go hunting a fucking hentai reject. He was starting to think that maybe, he just had the worst luck in the multiverse. He would test it out in a game of poker, but Klezmer always won. Always.

“Guess zou have favorites…” Edelweiss gave a quick smirk, obviously not very happy but just trying to annoy the entity.

Nightmare made no comment, yet the hauntingly beaming grin spread ever wider, putting Katagma’s typical quirky bullshit to shame. At once, the Lord of Negativity’s tentacles wrapped around Edelweiss’s body, engulfing him in nothing but freezing darkness, crushing him little by little.

He wanted to know how this one functioned.

—----

Error tore a rift open between Candytale’s Mainframe and Dreamtale’s surface, Ink hopping out ahead of him, Broomie in hand and prepared to start swinging.

Miraculously, as if Nightmare’s presence was destruction in and of itself, the place looked more like shit than either of them previously gave it credit for. Bullet casings littered the ground in some areas, the last of the buildings were rendered to moldy planks and bricks, Nightmare’s palace was on its last leg, and there were clearly signs of extra scuffle given the heaps of negativity that probably used to be the last few infected villagers. But the only thing either of them could detect for miles was the faint wind and the decomposing musk that followed Nightmare everywhere he went. Dude was practically a walking corpse and in desperate need of deodorant.

Ink lifted his left hand, signaling Error the coast was clear.

Usually, Nightmare’s attention was demanded whenever he could sense Error’s presence, but the fact he didn’t show any sign of interest in that was strange, if not alarming altogether. Out of all the times Ink and his friend made trips like this in the past, why now, when AUs were falling apart in quick succession? Did Error’s impostor manage to get Nightmare too, or was Ink just reaching for assumptions at this point? Dreamtale was unique in the multiverse considering its complete lack of code, and that extended to its natives. The worst Ink could fathom the other Error did was, psssh, he didn’t know– string them up and hope they stayed put? “Think he might not be here?” Ink looked over his shoulder to Error, who was preoccupied with looping his strings in as many areas as possible.

Error didn’t return his gaze, tugging on one set of strings to make sure they were secure. He obviously had his own agenda, likely destruction-related. “No, he’s definitely here. Probably in the town area he likes ripping apart and building back together.” The glitch looked above them, over to the already collapsing palace. Oooh. Yeah, that thing needed to go. Ink ducked under the lowest arrangements of strings, plucking at a few like guitar strings, which gave him similar results to the real instrument. If Error didn’t dedicate his whole existence to wiping out universes, could he have been the next Daniel Wayne Sermon? What about George Harrison MBE? Neal Schon?

Welp! Since Nightmare could be literally anywhere else but right here, perhaps some of Ink’s own destruction was in order. The artist backed up from Error’s work and ran over to assess the other side of the collapsing of the vast fortress, painting whatever kind of bomb and grenade came to mind on the outside of the first floor, then waltzed right inside to hide individual pieces of dynamite in gaps in the walls, where missing bricks should have been, and the few antiques Nightmare bothered to collect from his thousands of tortuous escapades.

As Error continued to weave patterns meant for complete demolition, Ink took care of the inside. The last thing he stuffed with explosives was the underside of Nightmare’s throne.

—----

KA-BOOM!

The eruption could be heard for hundreds of miles, sending rubble and debris into the sky with no particular destination in sight. The ground rumbled, if not reverberated the ground without issue, shrapnel, ashes, and flaring embers coating what once was Nightmare’s pride and joy, now rendered to soot, and at most, specks of cracked brick and slate. Not even the painted glass was spared.

A chunk of debris had impaled the ground two inches away from Katagma’s head, and even Nightmare himself whirled around in a bewildered frenzy, tugging a limp Edelweiss in his wake, to gawk at whatever that useless glitch could have done to his home. And the result was galling.

Dragging his second victim along with him, Nightmare sank into the ground, saving his fury for the only one who could have been responsible for this range of destruction: Error.

—----

Ink and Error had taken cover in the Anti-Void, Error keeping Ink’s focus on the portal acting like a television, overlooking the results of their combined effort.

At this point Error was well aware of Ink’s unfiltered fear of white voids and empty spaces, so the least he could do was throw a blanket over him and hold his head in place, keeping it pinned in just the right position where Ink had no other option but to watch, and surprisingly, that worked out! …Mostly.

“You know he’s gonna be hunting your ass like no tomorrow, right?” The artist nudged Error with his elbow. “Please, like he has access to my Anti-Void.”

Ink shrugged, then watched as the portal refocused on Nightmare, whose body expanded and boiled, struggling to contain his compounding vexation. The one thing that stood out, though, was a golden spear sticking out of his chest, refusing to budge with whatever wild movement Nightmare made.

Then another sight made itself known, an odd-looking Killer was being hung upside down by the monster. He cackled at the destruction, “Wow! Zomeone really hates you, don’t zhey?”

Error cackled at the sight. If only there were more castles they could have destroyed, then the entertainment would never end! Ink hummed, and shifted one of his pinned arms to get his partner-in-crime’s attention. “Psst! Zoom in on that guy!” “Which one?” “Killer?” Using the portal like a tablet, Error drew his fingers farther apart, expanding the visual on Killer, then raised a brow. Whoever made a change in his wardrobe, he looked like shit. Ink was allowed to lean forward, squinting at the ‘screen’. They bit the tip of their tongue, picking up fragments of dialogue between Nightmare’s shrill roars of unbridled outrage. Was that a German accent? “That ain’t Killer. Killer’s Arabic, he doesn’t talk like that.” “Huh.” Error zoomed out their view to normal. “Figured. He’s uglier than the real one.” Ink attempted to look up and narrow his eyelights at him, but Error shoved their face back in place and tightened his grip.

They huffed, having no choice but to focus on the stranger now. Then a thought hit him. “Think we should help them?” “And get caught by Nightmare? Not a chance.” “What if I distract him and you get them? Hang them somewhere in here or something?” Error clicked his tongues, a quiet, but disagreeing sigh slipping out from between his teeth. His weight shifted behind them, calling over a pair of strings that carried another one of his plushies. He switched out his Classic Sans for an Underfell Sans, then pressed its chest to the side of his head with his shoulder like it was a phone. “Ink suggested the craziest thing I heard from him today. What’s the catch? … uh huh…”

The bigger skeleton crossed his legs, further trapping Ink in place. The artist sucked a breath in, daring not to move. They watched as Nightmare snarled in his hostage’s face, then slammed them into the ground face-down.

“I already told them the risks, but they insist!” Error stressed into his ‘phone’, eyeing the scene as well but definitely not putting any importance in it. “Ooohhh, I see… he should really get that checked out!” Ink rolled his eyes, then something black with light purple and blue accents caught his attention. He almost sprang to his feet, but Error roughly pulled him back into place, continuing to yap into whatever company he thought was on the other end of the stuffed alternate. When Ink continued to wiggle in his grasp, Error pulled off the makeshift hood and yanked him by the back of his scarf. “The fuck is your problem???” “There’s someone else there! Zoom in again!!!”

Error growled and apologized over his ‘phone’, leaning over to zoom in at the top of the portal’s ‘screen’. Ink gasped, attempting to point at the still blurry figure, but now its presence was obvious and believable. The figure was clearly in the middle of an episode, like most of Nightmare’s victims ended up trapped in when he had his way. They were in distress, curled up on the ground, holding, clawing, and scratching at their face, but it was unintelligible of what they were saying, if anything at all. As far as Error’s portal could tell, they were definitely screaming, but details were short otherwise. The hood covering their head covered whatever else they were experiencing. If Ink had a soul, it would be shuddering. The artist leaned back, the back of his skull barely brushing Error’s chest, but the sound of his own soul pounding against his ribcage was indicative that he felt similarly. Probably for other reasons, but the secondhand distress was apparent. He let Ink look up at him. “You don’t have to go with me, but I really want to help them.” Error stared daggers at them, but the protector of the AUs held the stare with just as much determination. The glitch finally had to relent, exhaling a noise that was a mix of a sigh and a threatening rattle. “Fine. But if Nightmare rips you a new one, don’t come crying to me!” “That won’t be an issue!” A layer seemed to peel off the portal, allowing for travel. In an instant, Ink jumped through, and the layer was reapplied behind him with a quick zip!

Since their view was from the sky, Ink swung Broomie, brushing a suspended splatter right below him. —----

They resurfaced, squeezing themself out of the ever-smaller puddle of blood and materializing right beside the shaking victim, who he now realized has resorted to mumbling distorted statements to themself in an effort to cope with the pain Nightmare put them through. Stars, this was risky. Soothing emotional damage wasn’t exactly Ink’s thing, but Dream was MIA. He didn’t exactly have another option. He took a breath in, shutting out the screeching of Nightmare’s distant rampage, and lightly tapped the victim’s shoulder. “Hey– hey, can you hear me?”

“No more! No more voices! Bad! Bad!” Katagma pounded a fist against his own head, whimpering as he did so at full force, splatters of blood and violet tears dripping from his face. “No more! Too many! Too…. too many… no…”

Wait… that wasn’t a voice he recognized at all. And he had felt a tap….

Could that be…

He froze like a statue.

Ink mimicked the stranger’s body language, freezing himself and mimicking their exact facial expression. He was tempted to laugh, perhaps to break the tension, but last time he did that while one of Nightmare’s victims was only halfway out of their episode, the reaction only added to the prior damage.

Instead, the artist worked on softening his expression, then scooted a little backwards to give the new person space. He allowed himself to smile a little bit, eyelights blinking between red and purple squares to blue and green triangles. “Can you stand? I can get you out of here.”

Kata finally looked at Ink. He stared for a moment, before suddenly… vanishing. He was gone in an instant before appearing to Ink’s right and giving him a skeptical look, as though Ink was the strangest thing he had ever seen in his life. He acted as though the damage he had done to himself wasn’t even there at all. Not flinching at all with the way he tilted his head before just… batting at Ink’s head as though he was a cat and Ink was some sort of ball or puppy that the cat had never seen before and was testing the waters, all the while the world around them began to change.

It was rather clear that it was illusion magic, making the world look as though the trees were made of crystals and mushrooms, and the grass changed from the dark green it was a second ago to a neon teal. There were a few doors and keyholes in some of the trees.

How Ink was the strangest thing to Katagma was a mystery to everyone but Katagma himself.

The artist crossed his eyes at the other skeleton’s swatting, and slowly raised one of his own hands to swat back, but didn’t get the chance. The sudden switch in environment, however fantastical, immediately stole his attention. Ink sprang to his feet, tempted to pick up Broomie as a just in case measure, but he didn’t want to scare the victim further.

His toes dug into the grass below him, and he was perplexed by this development, considering where in the multiverse they actually were. Ink proceeded to blink multiple times, like he was trying to get an eyelash out of his eyesocket, then rubbed his eyes with his hands and sleeves. No change. “Holy shit…” He turned back to the victim, a happy blush forming in the shape of multicolored freckles on his cheeks. “Did you do this? It’s so pretty!”

Katagma snickered at the question and complement but then got a sinister grin. One that put the Cheshire Cat to shame, then he proceeded to disappear… except for his smile momentarily, which just disappeared after a second. He appeared in one of the trees hanging upside down, kicking his feet in the air, despite the possibility of falling off head first. Holding a bright golden, glittering apple. He tossed it into the air above himself and then caught it repeatedly. Why wasn't he speaking despite doing so earlier? Only he knew why. He then pointed up, before launching the apple directly into the portal that Ink had jumped out of initially. How he tore into the portal was a mystery.

Katagma laughed before disappearing and reappearing behind Ink with another of the golden apples. Where was he getting them?

—----

Occult was crushing up more arrows for Dream, who was still in fairly critical condition. He looked over and saw the glittering apples being stolen from a very familiar gloved hand. He shook his head and smiled.

“He’s having fun…”

—--------

Who knew…

Ink shook his head, unmoving in his current position. His confusion only grew, but what really shocked him was how the other skeleton was producing golden apples that looked so similar to Dream’s soul, Ink’s mind could only drift to one thing, and that was the guardian of positivity himself. Quickly, his eyelights turned a pale lavender, one a circle and the other a rhombus. “I– uh. Where are you getting those?” Katagma snickered, “I don’t really need a weathervane to tell me which way the wind blows…”

He tossed the apple to Ink before crouching down, reaching into a hole just under a tree’s roots and pulling another golden apple out of it. “But one does think your friend should be looking in his eyesocket! One might find another in there.”

He snickered to himself, finding the fact funny. He pulled out from the ground a pot of tea and a tea cup that were oddly completely and perfectly clean. So much so that they had a reflection. He then disappeared again and was leaning against another tree and pouring the tea upside down, but somehow the liquid went directly into the cup instead of realistically, spilling everywhere.

The artist caught the apple, holding it to his chest almost protectively, doing a double take between the cursed fruit and the illusionist. Was this a message? A threat? What happened to Dream?

Ink felt his bones shudder at the thought of all the things that could have happened to his friend. Apprehensively, his eyes locked on the illusionist, his hand reaching back to grab Broomie. “Where is he?”

Their current train of thought was disrupted, the illusion cracking at the hinges as a black, rancid appendage shot out from behind the artist and curled itself around him, then began to squeeze in quick succession. It kicked a wheeze out of Ink, and for that moment, all he could do in his current predicament was hold the apple away from the surface of Nightmare’s goop. “I am asking the same question.”

Ink tightened his grip on the apple as the illusion continued to drop to a halfway point, the deteriorating environment of Dreamtale slipping back into reality. The chill of Nightmare being so close nauseated him in the heat of the moment, and any attempt at squirming away landed Ink’s body in a devastating, crushing grip. “What makes you think I’d know? Dream’s been MIA for weeks now!” “Is that so?”

Nightmare craned his neck to match Ink’s gaze. His sight landed on the apple and his socket widened beyond what should have been possible, but then settled not a second later. Perhaps even he could tell something didn’t add up here.

“What is THAT!?”“What is what?” Nightmare burst out in a fit of laughter, carried only by his aura of hunger and malice. His stare pinned Ink in place, a weasel caught red-handed. “Tsk tsk… Have you become so negligent in your survival that your friends got involved in the crossfire?”“Ergh… what are we talking about?” That earned him another dangerous squeeze, punching the strength out of his ribcage. They swore they heard a few small cracks, the punishment bordering on painful. “You should know better than to play stupid with me, Ink! After all, there must be a reason why you have been so… a l o n e recently…”Ink’s body began to shiver, nausea building up in his throat. He wasn’t alone, he had Error! And a few other people as well, he just hasn’t spoken to them in like, a month or two? He wasn’t isolated! “Not with your f r i e n d having destroyed everything you stand for and all, I would assume your presence is outdated.”Another, thinner tentacle curled around their wrist, reaching for the apple in their hand. The artist made another desperate attempt to move, on the verge of pleading if that would make Nightmare stop. “NO, DON’T–” Cobalt strings erupted from the sky, wrapping around Ink’s black cocoon and yanking them upwards, dragging Nightmare up along with them. Error’s strings cut through Nightmare’s tentacles, securing a grip around Ink’s body directly, but their adversary wasn’t finished in his enraged pursuit. Nightmare hissed, unphased by Error’s intrusion, but his intentions were clear. For whatever reason he had, he wanted that apple, and only Ink had an idea as to why, and he didn’t want himself or his friend to die just yet– perhaps not ever. Ink freed his other arm and grabbed an unused handful of Error’s strings, tying them around the apple’s middle and tugging on it to provoke said strings to pull back.

Around them, Dreamtale shook. Ink grabbed the strings around him, attempting to pull himself up, but Nightmare and Error continued in their intense game of tug-of-war between them. A tentacle scored a place around Ink’s mouth, the taste of what he could only describe as expired, unseasoned applesauce and mold filled his senses, and before he could stop himself, inky vomit forced itself out of him. Ink erupted in a fit of coughing and tortured wheezes, engaging in a lopsided fist-fight with the tentacle to rip it off his face. They heard Error cursing. Some of his strings had snapped, infuriating him even further. “YOU WANT IT SO BAD, YOU FUCKING BOZO!? HERE!”

Error tore a golden apple out of his skull, his head twitching and buzzing with glitches and errors orbiting his person. He chucked the fruit down, scoring Nightmare square in the face before Ink could yell at him to reconsider his choice in throwable objects. “ARE YOU HAPPY YET, MOTHERFUCKER!? ONE DAY I WILL RIP OFF YOUR TINY FUCKING HEAD AND SHOVE IT UP YOUR ASS!!!”

Miraculously, Nightmare’s grip on Ink slipped away. The guardian of negativity reached up to grab at his head as if he had just been slapped into the next millennia, but Ink knew Error’s threats to him weren’t responsible for such a reaction. Nightmare couldn’t care less about whatever Error wanted. It had been like that since they first interacted. But then Nightmare began to scream again, this time out of agony instead of rage, and he dropped from the sky. Error gave a prideful cackle as he tugged Ink back into the Anti-Void, collapsing the portal behind them.

—--------

Meanwhile, Katagma watched the entire thing, eating a piece of strawberry cake that he had gotten… somewhere. He watched as Nightmare fell, crashed into the ground below and squirming in agony. Ah, was it satisfying; pure bliss to his nonexistent ears! Nightmare’s suffering had also caused the grasp on Edelweiss to loosen, allowing the soldier to escape. Edelweiss ran to Kata and said, “Letz get out of here!”

Kata nodded and opened the door on the crystal tree he was leaning against, grabbed the gunman by the collar, and tossed him through the door before casually walking through.

The illusions in Dreamtale faded from existence, bringing it back the reality of ruination that it had originally been in.

—---------

Ink pressed one of Error’s knitted blankets to his face, not to wipe off the grime left behind by Nightmare’s touch and his own vomit, but to keep himself grounded while in an extensive, blank space. The artist’s body shook with panic and nausea he couldn’t properly express, falling over to his side and curling tightly around himself.

Error had other ideas, having taken off Ink’s backpack while he was preoccupied, lifting out the vials he had taken from that creature back in the Doodlephere. He clicked his tongues in disappointment, seeing that they were all still mostly filled. “I thought I told you to drink your stupid potions.” Ink remained silent, the only sound between them being the artist’s harsh breathing. The glitch rolled his eyelights, summoning some strings down to toss them into what he called the “Abomination Square”, which was a small corner of the Anti-Void where Error kept whatever Ink forgot to take back with him after he followed him back home, then consistently forgot to throw back in his face whenever the idiot showed up again.

Error personally tossed the backpack into the little shelter after the artist, then closed its cardboard door. God damn, it was nothing short of ugly. At least Error didn’t have to look at it every day. He went to open another portal and switch through the few dozen AUs that remained, hoping to find something as entertaining as the now-destroyed Undernovella. Rest in peace. He could not BELIEVE his impostor did that, and Outertale was gone too, so it wasn’t like he could take a break for sight-seeing’s sake while Ink pulled himself back together.

Not once had Error considered he would despise a work of destruction in his career of being a destroyer himself, but here he was, seething over the loss of at least two things that brought him joy.

Wait, was Underfell available? No? FUCK! FUCK THIS. That was the only universe that had the one flavor of spicy chocolate he had been craving for days now, and that had been stripped away too! Error ground his teeth together, tempted to go hunt down this other him by himself, perhaps rip that piece of shit a new pelvis on his forehead, but a sob interrupted that train of thought. He would have missed it, if it wasn’t for the Anti-Void’s echoing effect. This wasn’t even a cave, but since when did anything make sense here? Was he the one crying? Error touched his face, but felt nothing out of the ordinary, so it must be Ink.

He crouched down to the entrance of the artist’s dumb little corner and opened the sad excuse for a door. “Oi. What’s your problem?” Ink paused, having pulled the blanket over his shoulders in an attempt to comfort himself. He had been rummaging through his backpack, and it looked like he was sorting through the papers he had taken from the Doodlesphere. The artist didn’t look Error in the eye, but tilted his head in the direction of his friend’s voice. “I’m just… thinking.” “That’s a first.” “Not– not that kind of thinking, Error.”

“Then what? I’m not going back to the Doodlesphere.” “Not the Doodlesphere either. I just…” Ink hesitated, then sorted the papers into an alphabetical pile and used Broomie to make a folder for them. “...is Dream dead?” “What?” “Don’t make me repeat it–” Another wave of tears dripped from their eyesockets, and they used the blanket to wipe them away.

“That other skeleton had golden apples, and- and Dream’s soul is a golden apple. And it’s… the last one, too…” Error made himself sit down, still hovering right outside the shelter. His brows furrowed, then he frowned. Last golden apple? Clearly, that wasn’t true. That illusionist anomaly had more than one, and one of them was planted into his eyesocket! The glitch grimaced at the memory of what that felt like, but kept his silence a moment longer. “And then you threw that apple at Nightmare and maybe all positivity is gone now, and-, and maybe the multiverse will collapse at any second!” Error barked a laugh, and Ink turned to face him. “I’m serious, Error! We might just be fucked here!” “Naahhh.” “The fuck do you mean by ‘NAAAAHHHH’, this is your fault!” “AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAA—” “Why you–!” Ink leaped out of the shelter, tackling Error with as much force as his smaller body could manage. His friend froze, but then struggled against him in an attempt to throw him off. Ink hung on anyway, a few French curses slipping out when one of Error’s fists nabbed him in the cheek. When Error’s strings yanked him off, Ink had almost taken Error’s scarf and coat with him, but they were ripped out of his hands. The taller skeleton hissed at him, his eyesockets blinded with code. He was on the cusp of a REBOOT, but powered through it out of spite. “HE ISN’T DEAD, YOU FUCKING MORON!” He summoned down the collection of strings tied around a golden apple, the one Ink had sent up after him when Nightmare was an impending issue. An overgrown cockroach no one had the brains to kill off yet.

And just to drive his point home even more, Error snatched the apple out of its bindings and took a bite out of it. Ink stared at him in shock, all the words he prepared to throw at the destroyer were lost, leaving his mind a blank, but an astonished piece of paper. Then, Error’s face twisted, like he had just bitten into an overripe durian instead, and spat out his mouthful of apple with a gag, his five tongues flying out just to emphasize how disgusting it must have tasted to him. It was too sweet, and he felt some kind of energy flow its way into his cranium, mixing with his current desire to rip off Ink’s arms and beat him to death with them. Ink released themself from the strings, keeping their eyes trained on the display before them more for sanity’s sake than anything else, but one look at Error’s mixed up face was glorious. As if he wasn’t horrified and mourning just a minute ago, Ink burst out laughing, snorting when not enough of the noises found a clean way out. He sounded like a cartoonish hyena, and any attempt to make himself stop was met with a more intense push to keep laughing.

Error growled in complaint and humiliation, “STOP LAUGHING!” “I C-C-C-CAAHHAHAHAN’T!!” “THIS ISN’T FUNNY!” “SNNNNNRRRRRKKKKKKK— HEHEHEHAHAHAAHAHAHHAAH—” Ink’s cheeks became acquainted with tears once again, falling to his knees and hugging his damaged ribs close, giggling to the point he couldn’t form a coherent thought. Error’s fists clenched on nothing, suppressing these new, alien urges that must have come from that apple. Did he want to hug that guy?? Seriously? He would rather strangle him! The tips of his claws dug into his palms as he sucked in a breath of embarrassment, but the more he pushed away the idea, the more intense it got, and the more he flustered.

His body acted without his direction, taking one step after the other against his will.

Ink only continued to giggle and sputter, his ribcage beginning to flare with tingling pain. He couldn’t focus on anything but the visual of Error’s fucked up face, his tears blurring his vision until all Error was was a dark blob contrasting against the white floor, but slowly getting closer. Was this the end? Did Error finally get sick of him?

Being crushed against his friend’s chest was the last thing they expected, or even really put on the table of things Error could have done. Ink didn’t know if he should hug him back or freeze, but something about it finally forced his laughs of pain to die, replaced with confusion and a lot of concern. Error HATED physical contact unless he initiated it, so maybe in this case it was fine? But he didn’t do well in the face of another person’s emotional distress either. BEEP. BEEP.

Oh! There it was!

Ink scrambled out of Error’s arms as fast as he could, then assessed how bad this REBOOT was from a safe distance. Error’s body was glitching out more than usual. If Ink hadn’t witnessed reactions like this before, he would have thought this was a mutated way of transforming into a final boss, but thankfully he’s seen this enough to understand this was Error’s way of coping with immense amounts of stress. “Uh….” Ink dashed back to the shelter before Error could wake back up, closing the cardboard door behind him and snatching Broomie back up from the floor, cuddling the overgrown paintbrush like it was the last thing he could count on.

He should probably… update his little ‘corner’. It was in need of too many updates. Yeah. Until Error was functional again, that’s what he was gonna do, then they’d go back to de-programming those universes.

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