TW: intense imagery, slightly depressing themes. Nothing about SH’y topics, just dread about becoming and adult

You are not in a bathroom. You are not curled up in the corner. There are no tears on your face. Your body is clean, unmarred, tolerable. There are no tears on your face. You cannot hear the screaming. There are no tears on your face. You can't even remember what you just saw. And above all, you are just so glad there are no damn tears on your face.

... 

This isn't working, is it? 

...

Let's try something else.

You are standing in a parking lot, in front of a sports stadium. Colorful banners, massive, hang from the sides, advertising the concert here tonight. You can hear your favorite band's pre-show mix playing from inside, and the air smells like sugary and oily concessions. Your partner steps out of the car you just drove them here in, and they smile at you, repressing a squeal of delight, as they say something about how exciting everything is. The pain noise doesn't even bother you as you approach the stand of trees  stadium. Your partner asks you something about being ready to scream your heart out, but you don't answer because they aren't there you're too excited. You reach out to hold their hand as you approach the stadium

and the illusion breaks. you can't feel their hand, or rather you can't imagine how the touch of a loved one feels. you are- no, you're not. you are at least in a parking lot. and... it is raining. you shiver, it is cold and dark. the parking lot looks like a void, the rain so thick it is impossible to see features beyond. just rows of empty lots and tall, lonely streetlamps. if you were really here, what you need is

fire. you reach into your pocket, pulling a cracked smartphone lit torch from your pocket. It fills you with a sense of encouragement, of community. It warms you to your bones. You can't even feel the tears on your face rain. Something whispers from the torch, whispers hope. Whispers encouragement. Whispers friendship. You find you are able to control the shape the fire in your hands, like all the magical powers you always wished you had. If you speak to it kindly, if you feed its delusions and forget everything that has made you you, it will drive back the rain. It grows, spiraling outward, growing branches, until you are sheltered by a great tree of fire. And the tree grows, burning away the rain. Burning away the air. Burning away the 

floor. you don't even know who you are anymore. a month looms over you like a reaper. everyone you know expects you to sacrifice something of yourself for them, then tells you they've loved you better than the others. either that or they've left you alone. alone with your thoughts. alone with the fire. alone in your own little hell. No, you have not come to Hell. You have always been here. The chill has been brutally murdered, laid to rest while this heat feeds on everything, itself, and most of all you. Now there is no escape, only judgement, and at least you have solace in that you are getting what you deserve for once. You have nothing to feel guilty over- the only thing you have space in your mind to feel is pain. but you can't

feel anything. you couldn't make yourself feel happy, you couldn't make yourself feel sad, you couldn't truly change yourself, couldn't delude yourself, couldn't do anything. the illusions destroy themselves like a mist that emits sunlight, burning itself away. and what's left is the ugly truth- you, in all that you are. except that

was a lie. You can make yourself feel one thing. Guilt. Guilt, like a sorrow that freezes into solid ice, weighing in the space between your lungs. Its funny how you think about these things while you cross the tundra. People surround you, people you know. They spoke to you through the torch. Except they are far, far away. The torch is not so far away, still separate but approachable, while the people stand silhouetted on the horizon. It is not a lonely isolation. You push one aside- were they that close? Their touch is freezing, and all it tells you is that you need the torch. and so you 

keep going. that's all you can do. you stand up, washing the stinging tears from your face. you look at the scars on your arm- you didn't go that far, not this time, but almost. and then you open the door. there is always another day, another morning to find his mercy new. but tonight you need rest. 

Get some rest.

Loneliness has never bothered you. You have often found you prefer to be by yourself, bot that you dislike people, but more that you enjoy becoming lost in your own thoughts. And, you think, swiping through songs on your playlist and taking a modest sip of a slightly flat cola, a melody and a beverage take that time to another level. 

You almost collide with someone as you make your way through the crowds. You were young, once, and you suppose you are still young, in a way. Timeless, even, though the word is a bit cliche. Regardless, you dance out of the way, managing to avoid an embarrassing collision. 

While the music guides the rhythm of your feet, the lights around you guide the rhythm of your eyes. Flashing all colors of the rainbow, against the night sky, buildings of different purposes, shapes, and sizes all share one thing: blatantly contrasting neon lights. Your gaze slips from display to display, a food stall illuminated in gold and viridian, the entrance to an arcade flashing in ochre and indigo, a carousel draped in glorious teal and fuchsia. 

The carnival is full of sounds, cheerful laughter, amused derision, and the pleasant babble of normal people freely trading hours of their life through gold and silver into grease, sugar, adrenaline and noise. Some inferior music plays in the background, royalty free instrumental covers of pop songs, somewhere between sickening country and low effort electronic music, repetitive and dull. No one else seems to care but you, who drown it out with a pair of headphones and the choice roar of a playlist full of music that the artists cared about, dancing between genres like an angel high on morphine, invoking emotions that don’t quite transcribe into written language. 

Needless to say, it smells alive here, in a way. The shallow satisfaction of oily or sugary food (or sometimes both) does not live up to the standard of its sickeningly alluring aroma. The prices are sky high and you have no money, anyway. The arrogance and corporate greed that assumes you would but such food is frustrating, but you can admit to yourself that you would probably give in and eat, if you ever felt hungry enough.

You pause near one of the rides. A monstrosity of steel and wood and speed, flinging its riders around like either a bear with a fish, or a child with a stuffed animal, you don’t know. Long ago you would stop in your day to ride one of these, working up the courage as you waited in line, until you strapped in and panicked, internally wishing you could get off, knowing as you reached the top that this was the end of your life, then reveling in flight and freedom and speed that lasted less than a hundreth of the time you spent standing in line. Eventually, like all other things, these thrills faded. Riders pass above, some screaming in high pitched fear, some more yelling in delight. Fools, but glorious in their foolishness. What you would give to live like that again. 

You move on. As you continue your walk, you find yourself occupied by an acute sense of loneliness. Every other person that you pass is sat next to another, many displaying an affection you tried to give away long ago, failing, and never reaching for again. You still feel attracted subtly to some of the faces you pass, but you let them go. You have nothing for them anymore.

You finally approach the exit gates. The world around you shifts, and for a moment you find yourself back in your body, your physical body, back when you had one. Dead, rotting in a box six feet under. Like a seed that never sprouted. Then you find yourself at a new carnival. You don’t recognize the characters of the language above the gates, but you can read them nonetheless. Somewhere else in the world, you walk, a spirit taken before your time, your afterlife the brief heaven of the living’s celebrations, something you can appreciate but never touch, a limbo between heaven, asphodel, and hel, depending on how you look at it. You allow yourself to remember this, remember how you died overdosing in a carnival parking lot. Then you shrug. You will be here for eternity, or until humanity runs out of things to celebrate, and there are much worse ways to spend death. So you walk the carnival, alone, and allow yourself to forget,

alone,

once,

again.

The artist sighed, staring up at the abandoned church on the hill. He had better things to do with his time than do odd jobs for some stupid church. Unfortunately, he also had to pay rent, and sometimes that meant going out of his way in the middle of the night to get his hands dirty and make ends meet.

That was another strange aspect of the job. Why the middle of the night? They asked him to come clean bathrooms and vacuum and check equipment… did they not have people who could do these things themselves, or at least supervise? Were they really that busy during the day? Apparently the last groundskeeper or janitor or whatever it was called worked himself to death. Bizarre. At least this wasn’t a permanent position. Even more bizarre was that the building seems completely dilapidated, like no one has ever lived there. The artist shrugs, they are offering more than enough money to pay rent for several months, and he can sleep later.

The church is dark, and he can’t find a light switch. Something stings him on the neck, and he swats it away- probably a stray wasp or something. He fumbles his phone while trying to turn on the flashlight, and finds the light switch. The church seems boring and average on the inside, dull colors and cheap ceilings. The chores are dull and monotonous, but not terribly difficult- straightening chairs and tables in every room, vacuuming floors, straightening bookshelves. The wasps keep pestering him, but he can’t seem to get a good look at them or find their nest. Wearing a hood doesn’t keep them from crawling down his neck and stinging him, so whenever he is stung he winces and reminds himself that it’s only one night of misery for several months of peace. Only a few hours pass, but it seems like longer to him. However, he’s not too exhausted, and listening to music while he works, specifically some indie rock band back from the twenty first century, gives him a guilty thrill. No one has probably listened to actually fun music here ever. 

Finally, he gets to the last item on the list. “Check all the cables on stage, make sure every instrument is connected to the AV team’s equipment properly for service time”. Odd. This place doesn’t seem like a service has been held here for years. Why would it be now? And why would instruments be left out in the open? Wouldn’t the musicians take them home? Very, very strange. But the room is just like you would expect- a large space with a stage meant for the band and orchestra and preacher overlooking a sea of pews. He climbs the stage and begins checking cables to the instructions. Several have become loose or partially disconnected, and he follows a strangely specific protocol to fix them. The cables feel quite thicker and heavier than he would expect, he had a friend who played electric guitar and would hook it up to an amp with far less bulky cables. These must simply be older, less efficient equipment. He finishes, but something strikes him. The world gets hazy, and he realizes he hasn’t been stung by the wasps in quite some time. What a relief.

The artist finally realizes. He’s not on a stage. He’s not preparing musical equipment. He has a headache, and everything suddenly feels so real and tangible, he becomes dazed and confused. The walls aren’t sheetrock and brick, but smooth metal, with bare rock breaking through in places, like a partially collapsed bunker- though that can’t be the case. His headache intensifies, and he feels suddenly thirsty. The cables he is checking fit to a metal box, near featureless but for a seam and a label. Mono Corp Virtual Stasis Module. There are many, in a row. One lies open, free of dust. He needs to go find water. The artist trips over something- a withered, skinny, parched corpse locked in a sickening smile. Suddenly, the artist’s phone rings. He takes it out and answers. “Thank you for your cooperation. You can leave, now. Payment has been added to your account.” But the door he came from doesn’t exist, and this isn’t his phone. It’s like, like he’s always been here. Something stings his palm, and he drops the phone just in time to see something retracting back into it- a micro-needle or some kind. His vision grows dark. He picks up his phone. The artist feels feels the urgent need to clean his room- when was the last time he did that? But he is too tired. He lays down in bed- just a quick nap, he can drink in the morning. After work of course. There is much work to do, taking care of his grandparents.

You stumble after your rescuer, not sure whether to curse or bless your soggy, frigid boots as you trudge through the dirty snow. You leave the clearing, happy to get away from the river, and cross back into the loblolly forest, the freezing rain making the journey incredibly uncomfortable. Then the forest you are traveling through thickens into a deep cypress wood, dark and damp and quiet. Something crunches beneath your boot- a pile of stark bones and rancid fur, the corpse of what appears to be a deer. It looks up at you and whispers death, until she catches you staring at the bones, and seeing something in your face, gently pulls you away. 

"So, survivor," she says, her voice mixing with the muffled rain. "Do you have a name I can use? Or should I stick to survivor?" You bite your lip and look away, mumbling something to yourself. "Okay, I understand," she says. "You can call me Ivy." The name catches something in your mind- you sit down at your desk, in your room, at a laptop opening a coding platform. Your little sister bangs open the door and demands you come play with her. "I'm busy, Ivy," you say, and then you stand up from the desk and stare at this woman who is not your little sister. She is wearing a thick yellow plaid jacket, heavy snow pants, and for some reason, in the midst of this madness, pink cat ears. She gives you a patient yet concerned look at your stare, then you shrug and keep walking. Thunder rolls in the distance. 

Soon you find yourself in a larger clearing on the side of a hill. An old, rotting, half-collapsed mansion-like building lays slumped on the hill like a broken body, and nearby, the source of the river you fell into earlier feeds a gristmill that seems inexplicably intact. Despite seeming burned, partially rebuilt, draped with tarps and left to languish like a drunken man in a ditch for decades, the shelter seems warm and inviting. The brick and stone parts of the building seem mostly intact, if not a little scorched. 

Ivy gives a theatrical curtsy and opens the door, and you enter, something like a puzzled smile emerging on your face. Inside, the place is lit with Christmas lights hanging from the ceiling like stars, some walls made of plywood with blankets hanging out of the edges, others of scratched up and graffiti'd drywall, yet others of concrete blocks stacked up without mortar. The floor is vinyl hardwood, except where it has been torn open in a corner away from flammables and replaced with tiles to house a small burnt-out fireplace. The entire room reminds you of a pillow fort, hot and stuffy and heaven to your frozen corpse of a body. You collapse on a torn-up couch, thinking you will never move again, until Ivy opens a window and builds a fire, and then you huddle up to that, reveling in the warmth that dries your clothes and lifts your spirits. 

Ivy disappears into a doorway and returns a few seconds later with a blanket, a bandage, two bottles of water, and a pair of MREs. "Whoever lived here was smart enough to prepare for the apocalypse, but they weren't smart enough to work with each other, judging by the two corpses with gunshot wounds I discovered when I first found this place,” she says, washing the dried blood off her hand and bandaging it. You shiver involuntarily, another memory trying to claw its way to the surface. Glancing briefly at Ivy with a smile, you banish the memory, then accept the food. You're not sure what you survived on all those years at Winslow High... impressions of maddened clawing through cardboard boxes stacked in the cafeteria storeroom assault you as you peel open and eat the stale MRE. You quietly ask why Ivy's brought you here. She hesitates, confused. "Because you're alive, and living people should stick together," she recites blandly. Unimpressed, you ask the real reason, and she sighs. "Look, you've been through a lot today. Are you sure you wanna talk about this right now?" You say you have nothing better to do. "I want to get revenge on Mono," she admits. "We thought they wiped themselves out, the bombs were stronger than anyone could have anticipated, but their top people are still alive in a bunker, somewhere, monitoring what's left of the internet. I got a tip from a friend somewhere else that they had found a survivor in a school near where I live by hacking into Mono's camera systems. What's left of Mono bombed him a few minutes ago, he's dead." She looks... scared. Sad. You say maybe she's been through a lot more than you have, then ask about internet. "Yeah, this is the only safe house I've found with a working router. Some of the satellites up there still work, so I get internet every couple of hours."

You ask for your backpack back, and she hands the damp bag to you. You unzip it and pull out the laptop- the crappy piece of garbage won't turn on. Short circuited, water damage, something else- you don't know what but it won't turn on. You sigh and toss it into a corner. "Are you... okay?", Ivy says. You respond noncommittally, saying you had an idea but the laptop's broken. "Are you a coder or a hacker or something", Ivy asks. Images flash before your eyes, video games you modded or hacked for fun, endless nights hunched over lines of code in an interface, stealing money from people's bank accounts when you didn't want to work for it honestly. You're not a good person... but you are a pretty good hacker. So you nod in response. Ivy's face lights up like... well, like the Christmas lights hanging from the ceiling. "Ha! Oreo was right! You are that one guy from Winslow High, the one who got arrested.” You shake and bite your lip again, not wanting to think about it, and change the subject by commenting on the name she mentioned. "Oreo? Oh, he's uh, he's the guy I was talking about. The one that found you. He said his name was Orion but I think that's stupid so I called him Oreo. He was working on hacking into Mono's satellites, and said that if I found you, you might be able to help. He actually sent me some of his code, before... you know. But we could find them and kill them, maybe if we post their coordinates online we can get other survivors to help!" She seems excited, like she's trying to distract herself, and waits for your response.

The ice, covered in fallen leaves and other debris, beaks under the weight of your fall, and you are plunged into freezing water, a small river moving quickly, dragging you away from the opening. You immediately go into shock, blind, scrabbling at mud and pebbles and twigs and soggy leaves and ice on the riverbed. Voices cloud your thoughts, speaking singing screaming MAKE THEM STOP!

Bubbles tickle your nose gently as the heavy freezing water digs into your lungs. Call me when they bury- you try and drag yourself to the edge of the river, out of the current, but the frigid, water has sucked all the heat from your body and is feeding on your energy now. Your joints are all stiffened by the cold, all your body completely and utterly shutting down due to the all encompassing cold. -bodies underwater- you can’t see anything in the filthy water, so you shut your eyes, and all you see is the dark red of the faint light fultering through your eyelids, coupled with electric yellow lines twisting and contorting madly like a box of snakes and black spots dancing, dancing, dancing forever, tainting and taunting you. -its blue light over- you’re losing oxygen, your chest burns and freezes with the water in your lungs, it hurts so bad but you are so tired, you just want to go to sleep, and suddenly you are in bed, folds of warm cloth wrapping around your body even as you are dragged further by the current. -murder for me. Your eyes shut, though they are already closed, and you are about to fall asleep, no you are already asleep and dreaming, this is just a bad dream, a story even, words on a page-

Something yanks you from the water. You didn’t notice but the ice locking you beneath the surface of the river had been gone long ago, but you didn’t have the motor functions to pull yourself out anyway. A hand, feeling what seems like as hot at the sun, painted red- no, it’s covered in blood, bleeding, grabs you around the wrist, and pulls you from the water. You emerge, spluttering, choking, spitting up water. Something dark within you is reluctant. It was almost all over. The cold is back, unimaginably frigid, biting grasping clawing,  and you don’t think you can handle the pain but you have no choice but to deal with it, as your lungs are too weak to scream. So you whimper and curl up into a ball, while a million little birds made of ice hop around in circles and eat your flesh. 

”hey, hey. Survivor. It’s going to be okay. I’ve got you, we’re going to make it out of this.” The voice is gentle and soothing, and it drives the madness away. You look up, your neck is so stiff that the motion aches like a bad bruise, but you look up. Her face is kind, understanding, and you break down and cry again, and you don’t know if your chest hurts from the sobbing or choking or coughing, they are all one and the same, and somewhere you can hear a damn cicada screeching. “Come on, survivor. We need to get to the safe house before the storm tonight. Then you can cry as much as you want and we’ll talk it out and see where to go from there. Plus, there’s fire and food and warm clothing.” She pulls the backpack from your back, slinging it across a shoulder, and you reluctantly get to your feet, even though you’re still freezing and hurting. It’s time to go. 

You begin cackling furiously. It’s like you’re in a band, and the corpses are your mosh pit. No. What the- you need to stay focused. Insanity clutches at the edge of your mind, but you push away the auditory hallucinations and force your mind to pretend like it works. 
This is… Mono’s fault. The sanctions… the protests… the peacekeepers… the rebels… the bombs… oh god, the bombs… 

you collapse on the floor in the middle of the filthy hallway, trying to suppress the memories for the moment. It is hard. Suddenly, your backpack speaks. 

“Survivor of Winslow. We understand it’s hard. But we need you. We’ll help you get help. It’s going to be okay.”

You emerge from the sports field that borders the forest, an empty memory of children laughing and running and playing together, the spraypainted lines and zones nearly invisible in the overgrown grass. Here and there is a stray brick, concrete, wood, or plastic rubble. Pay them no heed.

Continuing on, you climb a mostly intact chain link fence and drop into a parking lot. The lines in white and yellow are preserved far better here, where the scorch marks don’t cover them up. No one is here at the school this weekend, but there are plenty of cars in the parking lot. Technically. You’re sure that some of them could still be considered cars, if you squint at them.

The sun beats down on you, and a humid spring breeze carries the smell of wildflowers and burning plastic as you step onto the quad. This space between the school buildings is a haven, where students are allowed to go outside at lunch or wait for their parents during afternoon carpool. There are benches, tables, trees, a small garden, and a basketball court. You pass by the numerous backpacks full of flaky ashen binders and notebooks, left behind by the shadows imprinted on the walls. 

The door is locked, and the receptionist doesn’t seem to notice you’re there, so you let yourself in through the hole in the window, gingerly picking yourself over the rubble. A bell rings, or really, an automated noise played over the PA system. If you’re not quick, you’ll be late for class.

You quickly make your way through the halls, weaving your way through the statue-like maze of students trying to get to class. You always seem to spot the same students on their route between classes, and though you couldn’t name them, you could probably guess which classes they have. You enter the senior wing, and climb the steps to the third floor, and enter the math hall. They seem to have installed a new window and left it open, as there is a cold, wet breeze blowing in, making puddles on the dirty floor, running the ink on the freshman’s presentations tacked to the wall.

You can’t count the number of days where you’ve showed up, stared blankly in the same seven classes, learned what seems like nothing, not spoken to anyone new, and gone home hungry. Graduation must be soon, right?

You finally make it to class, a few seconds before the bell rings. Your usual seat has been taken by the gaping hole in the side of the classroom, so you sit on the opposite side. Someone has left their laptop here, and you are about to move it to the side before it suddenly flashes to life, a message crossing the screen in green boot up text. 

To the Winslow Survivor: wake up. you are not in school. wake up. there is no graduation. wake up. the world is ended. wake up. don’t trust Mono. wake up. wake up. wake up. 
WAKE UP.

credit @Through The Living Girl for inspiration and Mono.

There are two types of story in The Longest Thread. The frivolous, meaningless chaos of a story the authors  didn’t care about was the first- in fact, the Thread was born from posts like this. These had little to no consequence and were soon forgotten. These second was the real story. The plot arc of a character who was truly believed in, the inspiration of a powerful tale, the writing of an author highly invested in their work. This was what the Thread had become. And this type of story couldn’t exist without consequences.

At least, that was how 9/10mmHB#2 saw it. He wasn’t new to stories, but he wasn’t exactly an ancient character on the Thread. What he was about to attempt now would have consequences. If he failed, he would end up in the first category- a joke, entertainment, shallow nonsense. If he succeeded? Others would imitate him, copy this technique. The fundamental laws of the universe would be just a little bit weaker. The Witherlord would likely move against 9/10, maybe not the greatest threat but definitely worthy of attention. And of course, this experiment would have consequences on 9/10mmHB#2’s character, his personality, his very identity. He had to be deadly serious, not rush this through, decide if he was really determined to go through with this course of action. If he did nothing, there was a good chance the Thread was destroyed. Sure, there were other authors, other characters, but Inkwell had been part of that group and he had failed at everything he had attempted. It wasn’t guaranteed that the Thread survived, and if the Witherlord was the one to destroy the Thread, then 9/10’s death was guaranteed, either at the Witherlord or Sanguine’s hands. He had to become stronger. There wasn’t another choice.

He bit back the hesitation, the overthinking, the decision he knew he would have to make if he succeeded. The time for contemplation and complacency was long passed. It was time to take up the burden of significance. He reached out through a Rift, drawing on his connection to Inkwell to yank him into this reality. “Sorry, brother. You would have ended up this way anyway,” he said, yanking Shadowlight out of his hands before he could react, snapping Inconsistency into knife form and thrusting it into his stomach. Inkwell shouted in pain, staggering back, clutching the wound. He probably expected Splendorlight to heal him, but it seemed to slip away from the young artist, leaking away from his body like the last smoke from a quenched flame. “Damnation, 9/10,” he gasped, “What took you so long,” smiling unconvincingly before collapsing on the floor. 9/10 meandered to the desk and drew a set of chains that yanked Inkwell up and pinned him to the wall, then pulled a broken fabrial from his pocket and used Shadowlight to repair it, pressing it to Inkwell’s shirt and healing the wound. “Oh, I’m not going to kill you. We’re still connected, you and I. I want this body to persist no matter what. No, I need you for something else.” He returned to the desk, where two sets of fundamental cores sat, fresh from their author’s vault. He unlocked and opened both, laying their contents on the table. Two smooth ingots of dark metal, and two jagged opaque white crystals. They repelled each other as if magnetically.

“Okay,” 9/10 said, laying Shadowlight on the desk and stretching. “Let’s get started, shall we?” Inkwell was silent. 9/10 cocked his head. “No comment? I’m actually disappointed.” Then he stretched out his consciousness, preparing a quite large Rift. An instant later, he allowed it to close. Nothing seemed different. “Idiot. That did nothing,” Inkwell said. “Not quite nothing,” 9/10 replied. “We now occupy the Spiritual Realm. My presence is negating many of the instabilities, but I do have a reason to be here.” He glanced about the desk. The cores appeared less like physical objects and more like opposite orbs, one radiating light and the other absorbing it. Good. He picked up a sphere of Ordered Darkness and pressed it to his chest, breathing in. It was absorbed into his being. He was probably an Enuller now, though he didn’t seem to gain any new powers. He took a Chaotic Light sphere and pressed it to Inkwell’s chest. “Breathe in, or you lose a hand,” he ordered curtly. Inkwell paled and sucked in the Prismite. Now he was a Narrator, though 9/10’s Enulling would keep him pinned.

Now to actually do the deed. He retrieved Inconsistency and pinned one of the Nullite spheres to the desk, then stabbed deep into it with the dagger. Focusing hard, he flexed the same mental muscles he would when creating a Rift, using the ability only a Flaw had to command the narrative, reality, the laws of this world themselves to break. The Nullite resisted, but after a few seconds he felt something give, and suddenly found himself holding two different objects, one dark and formless and the other colorless and smooth. They were difficult to grasp, and gravitated to each other instantly, but he managed to put each in an opposite pocket before repeating the process on the remaining Prismite sphere- this one producing a formless light and a jagged colorless stone. He smiled. It was working. Wonderful.

He set the essences of light and order to the side, instead taking the dark and chaotic essence into his hands and molding them together like clay. They accepted each other surprisingly quickly, and he suddenly found himself holding an orb of chaotic darkness. He had done it. He had separated Prismite and Nullite and recombined them, creating Mordite. He wasn’t given much time to consider the achievement, however, as the metal immediately began burning and withering away at his hands. He cursed, dropping the mordite and kicking it away into a corner. He cursed against, looking at his hands, then quickly grabbed Inconsistency, transforming it and throwing it around his neck. The burning subsided. “Note to self,” he said aloud. “Don’t handle Mordite with bare hands. He missed Futility. What was Fog doing with his powers anyway? Killing off beloved minor characters? He pushed it aside while Inkwell laughed, then shot his prisoner a glare. “Shut up. You won’t be laughing long.” He pulled the fabrial glove back on, then picked up the Mordite sphere and pocketed it. Now, the final test. Would the author let him produce Luxite? Would other authors allow this?

He snatched at the essences of light and order, which to his frustration, were dwindling away, dissolving into the Spiritual Realm. He wasted no time in molding them together- this time they resisted. The narrative didn’t want to allow this- Luxite was supposed to be rare, even unobtainable. He did not relent, fighting it mentally and physically. Break, he told reality. Bend to my will. It took a lot of strength, but he managed to combine the two in a dazzling flash of light. He slowly peeled back his fingers. A glass orb, shining like a star brought down from the sky, sitting in the palm of his hand. Luxite. His Luxite. 

He crowed in triumph. “I did it! Yes, storms, I did it!” Inkwell stared in silent disbelief while 9/10 stared transfixed at the orb. It burned at the touch like a gentle spice, rejecting the darkness in him. But the order… it called to him, a sirens song of inevitability, of authority, of stability. A silent death awaited any evil that met this metal. He shook himself out of the reverie, pocketing the precious Luxite and returning to the Mordite. “Absorbing essences…” he mused. “Will the host accept a new one? Can I change their allignment forcibly?” Inkwell spoke. “You can’t bond that, 9/10. That’s a bad idea.”

9/10 sneered. In this moment, despite his pathetic presence and failure to establish himself as a villain, he looked truly evil. A desperate and insane evil, but evil nonetheless. “Oh, I won’t be bonding any mordite today,” he said. “You will.” Inkwell’s eyes widened, he thrashed, struggling against the chains, but to no avail. “You see, I have no need of the powers of mordite,” 9/10 mused, rolling the mordite around in the gloved hand, “And I don’t relish the thought of being in the power of the Witherlord. If anyone will destroy the Thread, it will be me, under my own power. But, to remove you as an obstacle? That would be worth my time.” He approached Inkwell and continued, “You won’t die. If you find Fog and she takes pity on you, your soul might not even be damaged that badly. You’re a good person…”

He reached Inkwell, pressing the sphere of Mordite to his chest with one hand and covering his mouth and nose with the other. “You can stay alive,” he sang softly to Inkwell, who held on valiantly. “Just tell me that you notice…” Inkwell’s eyes grew wide, frantic, as he jerked against the chains. “Even in the dark…” The mordite felt cold in his hand. “The way I left you breathing…” Inkwell stared coldly at 9/10, sucking in an angry breath. “Sometimes when we touch, everything we love, resets…” Inkwell’s skin began to burn away, his form replacing itself with black smoke. “It’s only just enough, even when we run, with death…” 9/10 finished. 

Inkwell’s body was falling apart, the mordite absorbed into his body. He bled black smoke, the flesh beneath melting away into a form composed entirely of living ink. He lunged for 9/10, his body no longer confined by the chains, but 9/10 was too quick, warding him away with the light of the luxite sphere. 9/10 himself sucked in a breath, pushing away the pain as it felt the light of the sun was burning him away from the inside. Light. You will be a protagonist. A protector. He aligned himself to the intent, accepting it- it was that or die- and the pain receded. Withergeist-Inkwell stared at his hand, forming it into a spike and thrusting it at 9/10, who fell backwards as his body too collapsed, skin falling into pure light, which he immediately directed at Inkwell. “I said I wouldn’t kill you,” he said to the withergeist. “Go. Find Fog. I show you mercy. You can even take the pen with you.” He gestured with the light, which burned away at Inkwell, who hissed, retrieving Shadowlight and disappearing in a flash or darkness. 

Consequences. Yes. There would be consequences for this. He wasn’t quite a Luxsprite, but neither was he a Flaw. He was something else now. Something strong. And the entire Thread would respect him now. If not, they would fear his name. 9/10mmHB#2. Fear it. He chuckled, taking Inconsistency and leaving the Spiritual Realm behind in a flash like the light of the morningstar.

A Flaw is an entity from a dimension between stories, I think in TLT this is known as The Void. Flaws exist for one purpose- to prey on Authors and destroy their stories. There are three types of Flaws I have created: Subversion Flaws, Killer Flaws, and Tyrant Flaws.

The Subversion Flaw is a demon-like entity that lives in its normal form in the space between worlds. It is the lowest level of the Flaw hierarchy and subservient to higher ranks, and is also the most common form of a Flaw. A subversion Flaw operates by wiping or suppressing its memories, then taking a host character in an unfinished story and magnifying the issues with that character. The end goal is to destabilize the story before it is finished and create issues with it that lead to it never being completed. If it is successful, the dead story falls into the space between worlds, and over time, with enough destruction, a Subversion Flaw can become a Killer Flaw. 9/10mmHB#2 is an example of this type.

The second form of Flaw is a Killer Flaw. A Killer Flaw’s job is to break down and consume the dead story. They systematically slaughter every living thing, destroy every world, kill any god that lived in that story, converting them into Subversion Flaws. In rare cases they may be sent into a story before a Subversion Flaw has finished their job, if that Subversion Flaw is having difficulty ending it. Instead of fully entering a story, they project a physical form into the story while keeping their soul safe from the Author in the form indulges in the slaughter. Instead this sense they are immortal, being able to simply project a new form of the old one fails, with no consequence. These forms are incredibly difficult to kill, having complete control over their body’s particles and suffering little to no damage or pain from physical harm. They also have the ability to rip through the fabric of reality, creating portals or even pockets of null space around themselves. Sanguine is an example of this. 

As a Flaw grows in power by the destruction of an author’s characters, it can grow from a Subversion Flaw into a Killer Flaw. Killer Flaws also can grow into the final form of a Flaw’s life cycle, the Tyrant Flaw. This type of entity never puts itself into the power of an Author by entering a story, instead feeding on dead worlds, as well as other Flaws. A Tyrant Flaw could conceivably end any world it touches, and is strong enough to exert control over any other Flaws it spares the life of. When a Killer Flaw grows strong enough to begin the process of becoming a Tyrant, it is usually destroyed by the current Tyrant.

As a Flaw grows, it becomes less intelligent and more of a force, losing the intelligence it had as a character. As a result, while Subversion Flaws are typically quite devious, Killer Flaws are usually quite stupid, and Tyrant Flaws are little more than forces of nature. 9/10mmHB#2 has internalized fragments of memories from characters of mine he has killed, and has decided to become a character himself. Sanguine has defined himself as an instrument of death and an incarnation of violence.

If you find my cosmic horror creativity eating story demon hives interesting, this is not a thing that only I do! You can alter a Flaw Hive to fit however you want to create a character, and it doesn’t have to be part of TLT either! If not, thanks for your interest in my weird nerdy excuse for why I haven’t published anything in four years of writing, and I hope you enjoyed.