in another strife

HS Specific AU Blog. Private & Exclusive, mutuals only.

[blimpcat]

Sad Dirkat commission for airbornranchdressing.. ;w; <3

[blimpcat]

Freaking adorable DirkKat commission for questbedhead ahhHH ♥

[inanotherstrife]

|{Hotel Undead}|

-- corrosiveGarroting [CG] began pestering taciturnTelefucker [TT] --

CG: IS THAT WHAT YOU SERIOUSLY CHANGED YOUR HANDLE TO? TT: Problem? CG: MY PROBLEMS WITH YOU ARE ENDLESS. TT: Uno momento, finding a fuck to give you. CG: HAHA, VERY FUNNY. TT: (K CG: SERIOUSLY. ARE YOU KEEPING IT? TT: Mm...

** taciturnTelefucker changed their handle to taciturnTransient **

TT: Better? CG: WHY DO YOU CARE IF I LIKE YOUR HANDLE OR NOT? YOU'RE SUCH A STUPID PIECE OF SHIT. TT: So you do like it then? CG: SUIT UP, DIRK. WE GOT A CALL. TT: Alright.

-- corrosiveGarroting [CG] ceased pestering taciturnTransient [TT] --

TT: I'm going to take that to mean you like it, though.

** Message was not received by the party you were trying to reach. Try again later! **

It was the year 20-Who-Gives-A-Fuck. Like in most post apocalyptic stories, we start off this tale with a normal, happy, disease ridden and stupidly, pathetically human (and troll!) populace. Then, one day, the diseased part becomes more than just a "cleverly" disguised insult about the state of humanity (trollmanity!). Instead, it becomes an actual real fucking problem. And the problem was never really solved.

Zombies. The word is so commonly used in science fiction it begins to loose it's oomph. And you can dress it up and tweak it -- walkers, living dead, corpses -- all you want, but it doesn't stop people from autocorrecting it in their head to "zombie". And why shouldn’t they? You can paint a white rose red but it's still a goddamn rose. Nothing changes about it. You can talk about it and describe it with every word in your vocabulary but it's actual name -- but it'll always be just a rose. Even still. Describe it long enough, come up with enough words to gussie it up and tout it as better than what it is, then the actual word -- "rose" -- becomes... plain, in comparison to itself. It looses... something.

The word "zombie" had lost a lot of meaning for Karkat and Dirk over the years of their geekish childhood. Theatrical, fake looking men and women in costumes shuffling around groaning and moaning. Gore so realistic on modern shows that you become strangely numb to it. At least, you think you're numb. Karkat and Dirk thought they were numb to it. And then twelve year old Karkat came over to Dirk's house to borrow his science book and saw the Strider family maid, pale and gaunt, flesh ripping in places, jaw hanging loose, eyes bulging -- and god the *smell* --

Time passed. The world slowly went to shit, and there was nothing anyone could do about it for a long time. Eventually, most of the population of the world was wiped out, and the rest were confined to compounds. Dirk and Karkat ended up in one. They had brothers, once. Now those brothers were either dead or in another compound. Communications were hard to come by. There was no way of knowing. They had friends besides each other, once. Those friends were probably gone now. Karkat gave up hope a long time ago. (Or at least, that's what he says). No one else the two met since the world ended ever came close to comparing to the memories of smiles and laughter from their youth -- it seems so far away now, so distant, even if it probably wasn't all that long ago -- that they just. Stopped trying. They had each other, and they had their memories. That was enough.

They grew older, a little. The grew stronger, a lot. They made promises; promises to get out, to find their friends, to find their brothers, to do -- something. They learned how to use guns. Karkat took a mercenary name -- Knight, because he was Dirk's knight in shining armor -- and Dirk followed suit; Prince, because he was large and in charge and he took care of Knight, and that was okay.

They became mercenaries. They killed the zombies. They saved people. They protected each other.

They waited, for a better future than this. It's been six years.

They're still waiting.

Knight stands at the cusp of a town, eyes narrow and posture tense. Prince as at his back, silent. Neither have spoken a word since leaving the safe city. Knight has a gun. Prince has a sword.

"This way," Knight says finally, voice rough. He nods in a direction and starts walking. Prince follows without saying anything, trusting Knight to lead them for the time being.

Suddenly, though, Prince stops. He lifts his sword and points it one direction. "Movement." Knight's gun goes up without hesitation.

"Come out," he says, voice carrying across the empty town. "If you'e dead, I'll shoot ya. If you're alive... well. We'll see."

[inanotherstrife]

|{Haunted}|

You’ve read all the psychology books three, perhaps four times. They all say the same thing, over and over again; in different ways, paraphrased to the sixth ring of hell. You’ve heard it from sympathetic colleagues, awkward co-workers, concerned bosses. It was like the mourning person’s mantra.

It’s a good idea to wait for a while before making big changes in your life. Don’t make major changes right away. It’s smart to wait a while before making big decisions like moving or changing jobs. Making big changes in your life probably won’t help you get over your loss. A case in point for not making big decisions soon after a spouse’s death is… blah. Blah. Blah.

You wipe tears from your eyes and take one final look around the apartment you and she used to share. Since she passed, the place that had once been your home now felt like your grave -- barren and empty without the warm light of her presence. And now it looked like it felt; the entirety of your worldly possessions packed away in boxes. You close your eyes against a fresh wave of tears. It had wrought hell on you to just — pack her away in boxes as you had. Pack the remnants of your life with her away. But you couldn’t stay there anymore. Damn the books. Damn them to hell.

You turn swiftly and leave the apartment for the last time. The way the lock clicks behind you gives leaves a sense of finality in the atmosphere that nearly breaks your heart yet again. You get in your car and drive towards your big change — and your new home.

“I’ve called the electrician,” you croon soothingly into the receiver. “They’ll be coming sometime tomorrow afternoon to look at everything.”

Blukat chirps something back that is a mixture of excitement and worry and you can’t help but smile. You also kind of want to cry, but, you honestly don’t have any tears left.

Kneeling, keeping the cellphone pressed between your cheek and your shoulder so you can hear your friend talk, you pick up the final panel of one of your favorite paintings and struggle only slightly to get it up on the wall.

“I think I’ll survive one night alone with faulty lighting, darling,” you say, a teasing lilt to your tone. “And yes, everything’s in the house now. I’m just doing some unpacking — though I’m a bit tired. I might lay down for a nap in a bit. Moving is hard work.” Pause. Laugh. “No, I don’t need you to rush right over — I’ll manage, promise.”

Humming, you sit down on the edge of the (new, better couch) and talk to Blukat a bit more. When he’s done and you both hang up, though, you sigh. You really are… tired. In so many ways.

Slowly, you get to your feet and move upstairs, eyelids growing heavier with each step you take. You move to the bedroom, and walk over to sit down on the edge of the bed and slowly sink back against the (fresh, new) sheets. You remember the start of the conversation with Blukat that lead you here.

“I! D0 KN0W 0F 0NE H0USE. THAT’S CURRENTLY F0R SALE — SUPER CHEAP T00! BUT UH,” he said, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. "THERE’S A…SMALL CATCH. IT’S. ER. APPARENTLY THE S0URCE 0F S0ME. PARAN0RMAL ACTIVITY. BASICALLY IT’S HAUNTED. 0R S0 THE RUM0RS G0.“

Haunted. You close your eyes. Not like it really mattered if it were or not. You were already haunted.