#Mizzstro Oneshots

[mizzstromalarkey]

Mizzstro’s Memory

-Balan Wonderworld Oneshot-

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“Run that by me one more time.”

Mizzstro’s words are tense. His short fur stands on end, a glistening platinum white under the stage lights of the otherwise dark theatre.

Balan exhales and gathers himself.

“As Wonderworld’s maestro, it is my role to conduct the memories of inhabitants so that they may rekindle balance within their hearts—“

“Right. Less poise, Balan. I don’t know who you’re trying to impress here.”

“—erm…but…without a proper stage, I’ve yet been able to draw your memories forth…”

Balan then gestures to the stage Mizzstro is lounging back on.

“…That is, until now. I have an idea. A work-around, if you will. Provided you would let me try.” Balan’s wide grin then softens. “I will not force you to do this, Mizzstro, but… you should consider my help.”

The jester beast hunches over his lap with a long sigh. He brushes his claws through the messy bangs of parted fur around his mask. He doesn’t look at Balan.

“You know how I feel about someone digging around in there.”

The maestro’s brow furrows.

“I’m only conducting your memories—guiding you through so I can help determine what ails your heart. I can see them, I suppose, but you will be the star of your own show.”

“Psh, you think I don’t know why I’m like this? I’m the conductor of psycho-analyzing myself, Bal.”

Colorful gem drops appear around him. Mizzstro simply pushes them aside with his tail. The annoying things always get in the way. Balan stiffens at the sight.

“I know you’re hurting, Mizzstro. I can—“

“You can what? Watch from the background as I relive all the shitty things that’ve happened to me?” Mizzstro’s claws dig into the floorboards. “If my issues were as simple as…as getting over a fear of dolphins, or just having goddamn art block then don’t you think I would have told you by now?”

Balan huffs like the beast struck a chord. “You would have never told me regardless because you fear being vulnerable with others.”

“Well, look who’s breaking out their Masters in Psychology. Should I pay that $75 cash or card?”

“Do you use this witty persona to deflect all the negativity surrounding you?”

Mizzstro chokes on his words. In one swift movement he tears into a frustrated shout, flicks his tail with a charge, then teleports across the stage. The green flash blinks through the theatre’s shifting main room. For a moment, rows and rows of empty seats stare back at Mizzstro. He searches the darkness for their lingering image.

With an uneasy sigh, Mizzstro strolls to the edge of the stage then slumps down against the wall.

“…don’t forget to add my recklessly charming personality to the analysis as well, doc.”

Mizzstro chuckles. Balan doesn’t react, much to the jester’s awkward disappointment.

He looks so small, Balan realizes, crouched against the wall with his knees now tucked tightly against him. He grips himself so hard his claws dig into the fur of his upper arms. His tail curls around his ankles, the sharp star tip still poised to strike.

Balan approaches anyway, though gingerly, floating over to little beast. Mizzstro flicks his tail at Balan’s presence but doesn’t stop him from planting down on the floor beside him.

“Putting on the jester hat, hell, the whole mask…and being everyone’s favorite little shithead…sometimes that’s easier. I can control that.”

Mizzstro hurries to wipe the moisture building in his eyes.

“You’re asking me to process things I’m still trying to understand. I’m not even human anymore, Balan.”

Mizzstro’s words hang between them.

“So, I’d rather put back on the costume cause that’s the only way I can get through this shit, even if it hurts just as bad.”

Balan tenses but finds himself nodding slowly.

“I’m glad you trusted me enough to share this, Mizzstro.”

He squirms at Balan’s words but can’t hide a small grin curling.

“Yeah, well… don’t get used to it. Just give me my heart piece therapy badge and I’ll be on my way.”

Balan searches the jester beast’s face. Mizzstro finally turns to look at him, even if just slightly.

“What?”

“Your heart is still imbalanced and missing, I fear. Do you trust me enough to let me help you?”

Balan reaches out for a moment to comfort him before pausing. Mizzstro flinches at the approach—Balan recoiling. Mizzstro shifts and stares back to the ground, his otherwise lively lilac and green eyes glazed over. His tail taps at the ground.

“It’s not…it’s not that I don’t. I just don’t have much of a choice.”

“Without your heart rebalanced, Mizzstro, you may never leave Wonderworld—“

The beast tenses, “—you think I don’t know that, Bal?”

“Please, allow me to help you…” The maestro’s voice strains with desperation, a rare falter of his grace. “I owe it to you to try.”

Mizzstro wipes his eyes again. He can’t cry in front of Balan, not like this.

“If you knew what you were looking for in my head, then you wouldn’t be asking to go digging. You won’t… you won’t see me the same after. I’m not the same.”

Balan floats to the ground.

“I…regret…that Wonderworld has taken your humanity from you.”

Mizzstro stares off, muttering, “Yeah, well, it wouldn’t be the first…”

Balan sinks. Negativity radiates from the false maestro, even as just a glimpse behind the mask.

“The pain you’re in is too much for you to handle alone. If you truly want to leave, let me help you in the best way I know how. I won’t give up trying,” Balan slowly offers his hand out to Mizzstro, “and I won’t let anyone else hurt you.”

Mizzstro’s ears droop. He looks up at Balan’s hand, then to the maestro himself.

“Even if you vandalize the theatre and terrorize Wonderworld,” Balan chuckles. He gives an awkward shrug.

A small smile creeps across the jester’s mask, but its warmth is real. Uncurling himself, he exhales a long, loud sigh, and grabs hold of Balan’s offered hand.

“You’re frustratingly good at this shit, you know that?” Mizzstro chuckles. “Alright. Show me whatever therapy parlor trick you wanna try now.”

[mizzstromalarkey]

The Big Emotional Reveal of a Washed-Up Jester

-Oneshot-

Mature themes, read tags

Mizzstro’s chest tightens and strangles the breath out of him. Each inhale is empty. He’s perched on a ledge of the floating rockface like he’d be smoking a cigarette, eyes glazed over with a numbness to his mind.

He’s panicking, he knows this, even if hidden behind a stiff expression. He’s done this enough to psycho-analyze himself to hell and back. Flood waters rise with the storm, then one lightning flash of memories will leave him paralyzed.

‘Ground your body and your mind with what you feel in present time’—Mizzstro recalls Balan’s stupid therapy rhyme and scoffs.

“What do I feel?” He strains a mutter. “I feel gross. I feel like I want to rip my skin off my body.”

Harsh words that sink like a stone in water. Mizzstro punctuates the thought by flinging rocks at the floating land chunks beneath him. Balan did also say movement helps. Dirt clods chip off the meat of the tiny island. In a sadistic sense, it’s satisfying to see each rock tear out another piece.

“I feel the ghost of every memory touching me…” Mizzstro clutches the next rock but stiffens too much to throw it. “I feel like I wish they’d just finish tearing me apart.”

He holds back the moisture in his eyes. He isn’t sure why—nobody is here to see him now. There’s no audience to grin and bear for. The rock slips from his hand and bounces off the ledge.

Mizzstro crosses his arms over his stomach, curls his tail up around his waist, and hunches over himself with the weight left in his hollowed-out chest. Is this all that’s left of him now? Pieces of him selfishly taken until there was nothing but a beast left?

“I feel like I don’t care what happens to me anymore. I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

He swallows hard.

“I don’t even feel like—I’m not a person anymore.”

Liquid drips down his mask. Shit… He holds his breath in the back of his throat. Hot tears pool in the sockets. Looks like Balan finally got his big emotional reveal after all.

Of course it would be alone like this—Mizzstro won’t trust someone to get this close to him. Maybe he imagined snapping one day and putting on a whole satirical production about it. Something show-tuney like Will Wood & The Tapeworms. At the end of his maladaptive daydreaming, though, he knows he wouldn’t make it past the chorus.

What would he tell them? The audience expects something big for all the trouble he causes. What could he say that wouldn’t further rob him of his dignity? Hell, his trauma didn’t even warrant him a proper stage. There wasn’t any heart—any semblance of identity or personhood—left to build off of. He’s just broken.

Any rescuing thought is drowned in Mizzstro’s mind. The storm fills his lungs and each cry for help is a struggle to choke out.

“It…hurts. It hurts, Balan, it hurts”

[mizzstromalarkey]

OKAY the last oneshot post was a bit much emotionally, so here’s a WIP of Wonderworld’s shithead.

He’s a feral rat man who lives in a cave (what transmasc isn’t) and terrorizes Wonderworld out of spite. After emergency crash-landing at the theatre, Mizzstro transformed from an inhabitant into… whatever the hell he is now. A maestro, if you ask Balan. Trouble, if you ask anyone else.