THE ULTIMATE POWER MOVE
During the fourteen hours of sleep I’ve had so far today, I had a dream that I was watching the original cut of Black Panther where the movie never left Wakanda but halfway through they realized that they still somehow had to have a Stan Lee cameo so W’Kabi’s introductory scene by the rhinos is him and a bunch of other guys who are guarding the border ushering away this old ass extremely lost white tourist played by Stan Lee holding a map upside down who is like “are you this isn’t the way to South Africa” and W’Kabi’s like “my dude South Africa is south” and that was the white representation in the film
Congratulations, genius. You convinced your best friend, the Protagonist, not to marry the story’s Love Interest, and instead go off and have awesome adventures with you forever. But in doing so, you pissed off the Author.
After the third bandit ambush, the Unnecessary Character waits until the Protagonist falls asleep to turn an accusing look at the sky.
“Hey,” the Unnecessary Character says, jabbing a finger stupidly at the non-sentient array of stars, “you quit it. You quit it right now.”
The Unnecessary Character, henceforth known as TUC so as not to waste too many letters on them, looks rather rough. Their hair is a tangled mess from the swallows who’d mistaken the horrendous strands as nesting material.
“I know that was you,” TUC hisses. “Swallows use mud and spit to make their nests, not twigs.”
TUC is unaware that they actually look like dirt, just terrible, smelly dirt.
“This is a lot of unnecessary anger,” TUC says to the sky. “You’re the one who thought Ally needed a friend and now you’re mad that I’m being a friend to her? Josiah was a creep, you know. Maybe you think he was charming, but he’s borderline abusive. No, scratch that. He was straight up abusive.”
TUC’s main weakness has always been the inability to see the big picture. They don’t know that the Love Interest would do anything for the Protagonist, up to and including battling the dragon that would inevitable be coming to the castle.
TUC pales until they begin to resemble watery porridge. “The what?!”
Their voice is shrill and stupid. The pitch of it nearly wakes the poor, exhausted Protagonist who’s had it rough these past few nights with TUC waylaying her with their idiocy.
“Let’s…let’s swing back to the dragon later,” TUC says. They pinch the bridge of their nose, trying to ease the headache thinking so hard has given them. “Look, Josiah wanted to keep Ally in the castle, okay? Like, all the time. She’s an adventurer, dude, not a stay-at-home wife. And have you already forgotten how Josiah locked her in the dungeons when those rebel forces tried to break in? And then just forgot about her in the aftermath until she broke out?”
It’s not surprising that TUC has misinterpreted that lovely and gallant action. Ally is a lady, forced to work hard all her life to support her mean family. She needs someone to take care of her so she can finally be happy.
“Her mean–they were poor!” TUC says, missing the point completely. They direct a hideous look at the sky. “No, I’m not missing the point! Everyone in her family was worked to the bone, not just her! They all had to work insane hours just to pay taxes! Taxes, may I remind you, that Josiah and his father set!”
TUC woke the next morning to a strange clicking sound. Or, it felt like the next morning; they had no idea how many mornings it hat been, since they locked themselves in dire combat with the cruel, twisted being who was the director and creator of their world. Time there had become strange. Had it merely been last night since they railed at the sky, at the ruthless, irrational being?
Ally was still fast asleep, her face untroubled for once. TUC felt both happiness and relief; she, at least, would always be safe.
Now it was quiet for a moment, before the clicking started again.
A silver deer materialized in the forest in front of them. They jumped, startled, knowing that deer had not lived in those woods for years, since Josiah and his father and uncles and other nobles has hunted them to extinction there. He was fairly certain this one was in dire danger, just being there.
But–the deer was wearing a blue ribbon around its neck, and carrying a rolled up piece of paper in its mouth. It came close enough to drop the paper, then moved off a little ways, still watching them.
TUC picked up the scroll, bewildered, and unrolled it.
In glowing, mercury-bright writing, it said: I believe you. I have always believed in you.
I am an Fanfic Author, and I am here to save you from your Canon.
(This is amazing, what a great addition!)
TUC frowns at the scroll, perhaps wishing they knew how to read. Unfortunately, such things were often below the capabilities of–
“You know I can read,” TUC says, their voice like fingernails on a chalkboard after their fitful night of sleep. “I would have slept great if it weren’t for you.” They roll up the scroll. “You didn’t write this, did you?”
TUC is hallucinating, a common affliction for those as embroiled in conspiracy as they. Their lips turn down into a frown, skin wrinkling unpleasantly as they look down.
“If you didn’t write this,” TUC says, the effort of thinking showing clearly on their face, “then that means you don’t have unilateral say in these events. Perhaps every moment you’ve designed exists concurrently with those moments provided by an outside source in your sphere. If that’s the case then–”
They break off as a whole flock of birds, seeing the terrible mess below, swoop down. Even when it is clear that TUC’s hair is not carrion, as they hoped, they continue to pelt towards their head with murderous purpose. They would have their revenge.
TUC, with far too much cruelty, drops the scroll and reaches for their bow in one motion. The first three arrows are lucky hits, scraping against the innocent creatures’ wings and sending them tragically plummeting to the ground. The rest of the flock, in fear, turn on an updraft and frantically fly away from the monstrous human.
“Nice,” TUC says, desperately attempting to appear they are not out of breath. They must be though–it must have taken great effort to ward off their fate. A hardly sustainable effort, one might say. TUC rolls their stupid eyes. “Birds aren’t going to do much, you know that. Don’t act like I just kicked a bunch of babies.”
TUC would kick a bunch of babies. They just hadn’t had the chance yet. Instead, they’re bending down to pick up the scroll which definitely doesn’t exist.
“But it does,” TUC says, muttering like a fool. “And since it does, it would seem that I–” they smile “I have an ally.”
TUC’s mom has an ally.
This is amazing. Definitely look behind the Read More.
I love it when writers do a prompt collab
Best thing I’ve heard all day
“Like 2003 Evanescence?” She knew EXACTLY what to do.
greek mythology dating sim
- bad ending usually ends up with you getting turned into a tree or some shit
- romancing zeus permanently locks you out of the hera good ending route
- and most of the other good ending routes bc hera will probably try to get you murdered during those too
- don’t romance zeus
- don’t interact with any animals either because they’re probably zeus
- make sure you interact with the horse though because otherwise you can’t get poseidon good ending
- be careful about initiating dates with too many goddesses at once lest you end up with a 10 year war on your hands
- romancing artemis not recommended if you don’t want to end up turned into a deer and eaten by your own dogs
- no matter who you romance, it inevitably ends up being zeus in disguise
Pdg.justZeus
i love in fantasy when its like “king galamir the mighty golden eagle and his most trusted advisor who would never betray him, gruelworm bloodeye the treacherous”
When my sister and I were kids we had this one action figure, who was actually a brutalized batman doll without his cape (the dog chewed half his head, too), who we dubbed ‘Evil Chancellor Traytor’. The idea was that in the fictional society of our toys, ‘chancellor’ just came with the word ‘evil’ in front of it, as a matter of ancient tradition. Like ‘grand’ or ‘high’ or something along those lines.
Anyway, the running gag was that the king (an old Power Rangers knock-off doll) had absolute and unwavering faith in Evil Chancellor Traytor, who basically comported himself like a mix between Grima Wormtongue and Jafar from the Aladdin movies. Everyone was always sure that Evil Chancellor Traytor had something to do with the nefarious scheme of the day. The dude even carried around a poisoned knife called ‘the kingslayer’.
The additional twist on the joke, though, was that he never was behind anything. The king was actually right. Evil Chancellor Traytor was the most devoted civil servant in the entire Action Figure Dystopia. He spent his nights working on writing up new legislature to ensure that broken toys had access to mobility devices, was always on the lookout to acquire new shoeboxes for expanding city infrastructure, and drafted a proposal that once got half the ‘settlement’ in my sister and I’s closet moved to the upper shelf so that vulnerable toys were less likely to be snatched up by the dog.
The knife, as it turned out, was as symbolic as the ‘evil’ in his name. See, Action Figure Dystopia had a long history of corrupted monarchs getting too big for their thrones and exploiting the underclasses. The job of the Evil Chancellor was to always remain vigilant, and loyally serve a good ruler – or, if the regent should became a despot, to slay them on behalf of the people.
But since killing the king would be a terrible crime, the Evil Chancellor had to be the kind of person who would willingly die to spare the people from the plight of a wicked leader; because the murder would be pinned on them, in order to keep the ‘machinery of politics’ working as smoothly as ever.
Anyway, Evil Chancellor Traytor had a diary, in which my sister I would take turns writing out the most over-the-top good shit he’d done behind the scenes. Usually after everyone else had finished talking shit about him. I don’t know why but we got the biggest kick out of being like:
Barbie With the Unfortunate Haircut: Oh that Evil Chancellor Traytor! Why can’t the king see how wicked he is?!
Charmander From the Vending Machine: Char!
Jurassic Park Toy of Jeff Goldblum With Disturbingly Realistic Face: At least if someone puts a knife in the king’s back, we’ll know where to look!
Evil Chancellor Traytor’s Diary: Today I was feeding ducks at the park when I noticed another legless action figure sitting by the benches. I put a hundred dollars into his bag while he wasn’t looking. I really need to increase budgeting to the medical treatment centers. If only we had enough glue, I think we would see far fewer toys trying to get by without limbs… *insert iconic evil laugh*
Anyway, Evil Chancellor Traytor eventually fell victim to one of my mom’s cleaning sprees, and she decided he was too busted up to keep and tossed him out. My littler brother, who tended to follow my sister and I’s games like he was watching a daily soap opera, cried so hard that we had to do a special ‘episode’ where one of the toys found the Evil Chancellor’s diary, and so he got a big huge memorial and the king threw himself into the empty grave and then ordered the toys driving the toy bulldozer to bury him so that ‘Traytor’s grave would have a body’ (this seemed very important for some reason).
And then we had the Quest For a New King. Somehow or another that ended up being a giant rubber snake called ‘Tyrant King Cobra’.
::closes tab, shuts off computer, and proceeds to have the best day ever just by knowing this exists::
i will always reblog Evil Chancellor Traytor
gritty reboot games are all well and good but im tired of playing as sad angry dads. wheres the game where i get to play as the mum. where’s the gritty cooking mama reboot where mama owns a failing restaurant business and has to make a pact with the devil to get it up and running again while fighting monsters on the side. ‘just like mama’ she says, giving a thumbs up at the camera as the corpse of a beast the size of a sky scraper lays in pieces in the background. then u go home and do a cute cooking minigame
You were summoned to another world to be its Hero. You attained amazing abilities and powers. Traveled to distant, fantastic lands and exotic cultures. Met and fought alongside incredible allies to stop the unspeakable Evil. Lost friends along the way. But now you’ve returned to your own world.
He’s painfully aware that the sun is different here. Or, rather, was different there since he was technically there second and here before. There’s more yellow and red leaking through his closed eyelids here and there was…less of it there. He can’t describe it exactly but it was different.
His schedule is different too, but not really because it’s the same as it was Before. It just feels new and unnerving because he wakes up every day in the same bed instead of some random dirt patch on the road like he’d gotten used to. And every morning he eats across the table from a woman whose face he’s used to only seeing in his dreams. It lends a whole surreal aspect to his day that magic hadn’t even made him feel.
“Ready for school?” his mom asks. She’s painfully thin, skin pulled inwards around her wide cheekbones. She reminds him of the villagers in Pompet, the stage of the final battle, the day before he left. Hurt and hollowed and trying to find a way to keep breathing. To find a reason to get up in the morning and wash the blood from their hands.
She’s looking at him like she’s thinking he’s her reason.
Charles swallows his cereal painfully, trying to remember how he might have responded before the missing months tore a hole in his memory. “Yeah. Just need to get my homework.”
“You’ll meet me out front at 3:05?”
“Mom,” Charles says, cereal sitting heavy in his stomach, “you have work today until 5.”
She stands, wooden chair screeching across the linoleum, and turns to busy herself at the sink. “3:15? You shouldn’t need any longer than that, the school isn’t that big.”
He stares hard at his bowl. “Do you think your boss will let you leave work early again?”
“I’m the parent,” she says in her hard voice. The hard voice is new, another gift from months of screaming at uniformed officers and howling his name into the woods that border their town. “You let me worry about that.”
It’d take more courage than he needed to face the Embalming King to ask another question at that moment. He feels the phantom press of a sword in his hand, can feel his muscles locking into place for a fight, but he doesn’t move a muscle. There’s nothing to fight here, not anything he can see anyway.
Some battles, he knows, aren’t his to fight.
His mom would either conquer the fear that he’d disappear from campus again, or she wouldn’t. He didn’t really have any say in that.
“Get your homework,” his mom says, coming around the table to drop a kiss on the top of his head. She lingers a little on the red streaking his dark brown hair, still not asking how they stay without her having seen him dye it, but doesn’t ask again. “I’ll meet you in the car.”
Charles waits until he hears the front door close before he lets his hands, resting on his lap, clench. His heart is beating too hard in his chest as he stares down into his cereal bowl, trying not to let the power overwhelm him as it had too often before.
I can’t use my power. I’m not there, he tells himself fiercely, breath coming in forcefully even inhales and exhales. And I never will be again.
The bowl shatters against the floor before he realizes that he’s standing, before he can tell his arms not to sweep the contents of the table away from him with full strength, before he can really decide whether he’s grateful or angry that it’s over.
All he knows now is that his mom is hurting (still hurting) because of him and this isn’t like when the Embalming King took Tansia. He can’t rescue his mom, he can’t solve this crisis, and everything he went through then– the months of training, the blood and tears, the humiliation, the betrayals– means nothing now.
Nothing.
The front door opens, the sound of his moms footsteps beating in his ears like war drums. She’s probably wondering if he’s run out the backdoor, disappearing again and not willing to tell her (still) where he’s going.
He takes a deep breath and waves his hands over the shards of bowl on the ground just a moment before she reenters the kitchen.
“Charles?” she asks, hands fluttering up to rest on the door frame. “I heard a sound, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he says and is thankful that his voice is even. “Yeah, just putting my dishes in the sink.”
His mom casts a dubious look at the whole, unshattered bowl sitting on the counter. “Oh. Well, come on, kiddo. You can’t afford to be late.”
Charles grabs his backpack and follows her out to the car without another word.
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