An ask blog for my MCSM story, Movie Mode, on FanFiction.net! Ask the audience any question, be it about their thoughts on the episodes or their relationships with the other characters. And maybe, just maybe, you'll get an answer from the monster that lurks within the mansions walls...
Just wanted to know if it’s alright to write fanfics for...well...this fanfic! Because I’ve been fixated on it lately and I wanted to know if it’s alright with you before I did anything!<3 Hope you’re doing alright, by the way! You’re really talented and Movie Mode has been a huge comfort fic so thank you so much for writing it. Ｏ(≧∇≦)Ｏ All the best!
that's very sweet! movie mode is unfortunately discontinued but if you still want to, you're more than welcome to write fics for it! I'm so glad you were able to find comfort in a silly little thing i wrote haha feel free to tag me in anything you make ^-^
I was trying to figure out what the catastrophic event that someone rewound time to deal with was, and thought it might've taken place during when episode 5 was supposed to take place, and that's why episode 5 wasn't there.
But after re-reading the post with the Playlist, apparently Jesse and Co ended up getting as far as defeating and sparing Romeo, so I wasn't sure anymore.
This AU has been living in my brain recently and I love it.
Haha I'm glad you like it! It's been a while since I've thought about it. Tbh feel free to make up any headcanon or version you like, 'cause I was 14 when I started writing this and there wasn't really going to be anything other than 'the characters watch the movie.' The 'catastrophic event' would've been the Witherstorm. I wish I had come up with something more creative but if I had any thoughts on it, I don't remember them haha
okay so context for this one is that, from what i've been able to discern and remember, it's basically an AU where a cult or something has kidnapped Jesse and turned them into a vessel for the Witherstorm. Unsure whether this was meant to take place before or after the events of the game.
Warning for self-harm, torture, extreme isolation, blood, cults, burning, amnesia and feeling like you're going insane. If anyone thinks any other warnings should be added, please let me know.
Latest Draft: Discolour
He was forgetting, and that was what scared him the most.
It was as though his memories from Before were drowning in quicksand, slowly being dragged deeper and deeper into the depths of his brain to the point that, if he were somehow able to heave them back out, they would be stained and damaged. He wasn't sure whether or not the Forgetting was due to the fact that he'd been here, in this tiny world of four white walls and a tiled floor, for as long as he had been (not that he had any idea how long he'd been here whatsoever), or if it was a symptom of whatever they had done to him.
Whatever they were doing to him.
He'd counted each tile on the floor, knew the exact number of dipping cracks off the top of his head, knew which ones were cut short by the walls. He'd found every tiny bump, nook and cranny in the white, fingers tracing along them, had even pin-pointed the ones on the ceiling. He'd tried counting in his head to
(keep himself sane)
pass the time, but had lost count somewhere in the five hundred thousands. He'd start up again, though. He always did.
Brain beginning to thump behind his eyes, he grimaced and raised his hands to scrub at his forehead. It usually hurts not long after he's taken out of the room (and oh god, things were so much worse when that happens, when they come, things were always so much), although he's always returned eventually. And as much as the white walls and the tiled floor were burnt into his eyelids, as painfully boring as they were, he would always choose the room over what lay outside it. What they do.
He groaned quietly, pressing his palms into his eyes and breathing deeply. His chest spasmed. The Thing Inside stirred, but didn't waken.
Yes, the Forgetting was definitely the worst part. And that was certainly saying something, considering just how terrible everything about this was. The Before was blurry now, fogged and unclear, as were the people that had been there. All reduced to blurred faces and splotches of colour and half-pronounced names. Panic curled in his chest everytime he tried to think back and hit a wall, everytime he paused and realised with rising horror that he couldn't remember his name.
He had been certain of rescue, at some point. Certain that someone- someone who he could no longer remember by face nor name- was coming for him. Was looking for him. Would find him.
Looks like they never did.
He squeezed his eyes shut against the achingly bright light above him, grinding his teeth together as the urge to cry closed his throat. He had already cried, and he didn't want to
(wake it)
do it again. There was no point. It's not like it'll magically fix everything. Besides, he was almost completely sure that they were watching him. He wouldn't be surprised if they were.
But he didn't want to Forget. He didn't want to be left alone in an empty room with nothing but an empty head, the same white walls and tiled floor and bright light and windowless door, counting the cracks on the ceiling, the cracks forming on his brain. He didn't want to Forget a time before they'd ripped and sown scars across his body, before straps held him down, before the agonising pain. Please, don't make him forget.
Then there was the Thing Inside. No, he would not be forgetting the Thing Inside. No matter how much he would like to. No matter how much he wanted to.
Hard to forget what's always there.
He gritted his teeth, tears burning in his eyes and squeezing his throat. Panic was beginning to curl inside his chest, constricting his lungs, making it hard to breathe. He dug his nails into his skin, trying to squash it down. But it was enough for the Thing Inside to jolt awake with a grumble, little sparks of pain stabbing at the small of his back like a thousand needles.
Grunting, he clamped down on his tongue, sucking in harsh breaths through his clenched teeth as It withered against his spine. It was hungry, as It was always hungry. He could feel it aching through his stomach, up to his chest, throbbing in his brain to the point that he was fairly certain he was either going to throw up or pass out.
Not like it mattered. He was already clamping his teeth down on the flesh of his arm.
When you count the same tiles two thousand eight hundred and nineteen times, the same cracks one thousand nine hundred and sixty-four times, the same thin strips of white line still visible from the new paint four thousand one hundred and eight times, you begin to lose your mind.
---
When you sit in utter silence with nothing but the buzz of your brain and the cold floor to lie on, you begin to turn transparent. You grow numb and you become a nothing within a nothing, a hazy dream entirely disconnected from a reality you can't remember. When you lie there and count, from zero and onwards and onwards and onwards and onwards and onwards, with nothing to do and nowhere to go, you start to go insane.
He was fairly certain he'd already done so a very long time ago.
(Not that he knew how long he'd been here.)
Groaning, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, his eyes aching. A dull throb shot through his arm, and he glanced at it, at the blood trailing from the deep bite just below his elbow, pooling on the floor and staining his pants leg. The urge to smear it on his hands and face and the floor and walls, to make the white (white white white white) all red (red red make it red god no more white get rid of the goddamn white make it red please) rose up, but something stopped him.
He may be Forgetting (goodbye, names and places and faces), but he knew- somewhere in his empty brain- what would happen if he spread the red. What had happened the last time.
He didn't touch the red, because he wasn't supposed to touch the red, but he watched it. Observed it. Looked at it. Watched it sluggishly spread across the white. Watched it slowly dry to a dark reddish-brown and stain.
But he did not touch it.
After a long time (or maybe no time at all), his muscles began to ache, so he shifted and laid down on his side, not once taking his eyes off the drying blood. It was the most interesting thing that had happened in what felt like centuries. The pain in his arm was welcome. It was different. It reminded him that he wasn't dead.
He welcomed the pain.
He welcomed the blood.
(He didn't touch the red.)
There was a difference from the pain and bleeding inside the room than outside it. The pain and bleeding from inside the room was done by him. The pain and bleeding was purposeful, was created, was welcome- even if it was initially for the Thing Inside. But the pain and bleeding that happened outside the room was not welcome. Was not a relief. Was not done by him.
It was difficult to decide whether or not he preferred the blindingly white door to be open or closed. Very difficult indeed.
Earlier Draft: Bunny Bones (for some reason)
He was forgetting, and that was what scared him the most.
It was as though his memories from Before were drowning in quicksand, slowly being dragged deeper and deeper into the depths of his brain to the point that, if he were somehow able to heave them back out, they would be stained and damaged. He wasn't sure whether or not the Forgetting was due to the fact that he'd been here, in this tiny world of four white walls and a tiled floor, for as long as he had been (not that he had any idea how long he'd been here whatsoever), or if it was a symptom of whatever they had done to him.
Whatever they were doing to him.
He'd counted each tile on the floor, knew the exact number of dipping cracks off the top of his head, knew which ones were cut short by the walls. He'd found every tiny bump, nook and cranny in the white, fingers tracing along them, had even pin-pointed the ones on the ceiling. He'd tried counting in his head to
(keep himself sane)
pass the time, but had lost count somewhere in the five hundred thousands. He'd start up again, though. He always did.
Brain beginning to thump behind his eyes, he grimaced and raised his hands to scrub at his forehead. It usually hurts not long after he's taken out of the room (and oh god, things were so much worse when that happens, when they come, things were always so much), although he's always returned eventually. And as much as the white walls and the tiled floor were burnt into his eyelids, as painfully boring as they were, he would always choose the room over what lay outside it. What they do.
He was riddled with scars. Carved into his skin like a craftsman with a block of wood, elegant and beautiful, had it not been for the ugly, terrible black and purple and yellow bruises that stained him like mud on a newly cleaned floor. There were patterns and symbols he didn't understand; they crawled along his arms and across his shoulders, all over his chest and stomach and down his legs. They were on his feet, his hands, his back. He didn't have to see them to know they were they. They made their presence known by the throbbing, burning pain they brought.
Elegantly ugly.
He groaned quietly, pressing his palms, adorned with twin perfect circles of scarred flesh, into his eyes. They did it with scary precision. Cutting not deep enough for him to bleed out without stitches, but deep enough to scar. Deep enough to hurt.
But yes, the Forgetting was definitely the worst part. And that was certainly saying something, considering just how terrible everything about this was. The Before was blurry now, fogged and unclear, as were the people that had been there. All reduced to blurred faces and splotches of colour and half-pronounced names. Panic curled in his chest everytime he tried to think back and hit a wall, everytime he paused and realised with rising horror that he couldn't remember his name.
He had been certain of rescue, at some point. Certain that someone- someone who he could no longer remember by face nor name- was coming for him. Was looking for him. Would find him.
Looks like they never did.
He squeezed his eyes shut against the achingly bright light above him, grinding his teeth together as the urge to cry closed his throat. He had already cried, and he didn't want to
(wake it)
do it again. There was no point. It's not like it'll magically fix everything. Besides, he was almost completely sure that they were watching him. He wouldn't be surprised if they were.
But he didn't want to Forget. He didn't want to be left alone in an empty room with nothing but an empty head, the same white walls and tiled floor and bright light and windowless door, counting the cracks on the ceiling, the cracks forming on his brain. He didn't want to Forget a time before they'd ripped and sown scars across his body, before straps held him down, before the agonising pain. Please, don't make him forget.
Then there was the Thing Inside. No, he would not be forgetting the Thing Inside. No matter how much he would like to. No matter how much he wanted to.
Hard to forget what's always there.
He gritted his teeth, tears burning in his eyes and squeezing his throat. He wanted to get out of here. Away from the white, white room and the pain, the pain, the pain. Wanted to run, as far and as fast as he possibly could, in any direction, to anywhere, so long as it wasn't here.
But there was no running.
There was no escaping.
There was only pain.
And Forgetting.
---
When you count the same tiles two thousand eight hundred and nineteen times, the same cracks one thousand nine hundred and sixty-four times, the same thin strips of white line still visible from the new paint four thousand one hundred and eight times, you begin to lose your mind.
When you sit in utter silence with nothing but the buzz of your brain and the cold floor to lie on, you begin to turn transparent. You grow numb and you become a nothing within a nothing, a hazy dream entirely disconnected from a reality you can't remember. When you lie there and count, from zero and onwards and onwards and onwards and onwards and onwards, with nothing to do and nowhere to go, you start to go insane.
He was fairly certain he'd already done so a very long time ago.
(Not that he knew how long he'd been here.)
Groaning, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, his eyes aching. A dull throb shot through his stomach, and he glanced at it, at the blood trailing from the elegant lines and symbols and runes carved around his belly button, pooling on the floor and staining his pants. They had been healing, but he must have torn them. The urge to smear it on his hands and face and the floor and walls, to make the white (white white white white) all red (red red make it red god no more white get rid of the goddamn white make it red please) rose up, but something stopped him.
He may be Forgetting (goodbye, names and places and faces), but he knew- somewhere in his empty brain- what would happen if he spread the red. What had happened the last time.
He didn't touch the red, because he wasn't supposed to touch the red, but he watched it. Observed it. Looked at it. Watched it sluggishly spread across the white. Watched it slowly dry to a dark reddish-brown and stain.
But he did not touch it.
After a long time (or maybe no time at all), his muscles began to ache, so he shifted and laid down on his side, not once taking his eyes off the drying blood. It was the most interesting thing that had happened in what felt like centuries. The pain in his stomach was welcome. It was different. It reminded him that he wasn't dead.
He welcomed the pain.
He welcomed the blood.
(He didn't touch the red.)
There was a difference from the pain and bleeding inside the room than outside it. The pain and bleeding from inside the room was done by him. The pain and bleeding was purposeful, was created, was welcome- even if it was initially done by them. But the pain and bleeding that happened outside the room was not welcome. Was not a relief. Was not done by him.
It was difficult to decide whether or not he preferred the blindingly white door to be open or closed. Very difficult indeed.
---
His skull was splitting in half. His brain was shredding itself to bits, ripping and tearing, like a dog gorging on a juicy steak. He was screaming- or at least, he thought he was screaming- but that didn't stop it. Didn't stop them.
The fire crackled and spat. He was bleeding- from nowhere and everywhere, lying in a pool of his own blood, his wrists and ankles rubbed raw from rope burn. They were everywhere, all around him, forming a circle around the fire like campers trying to keep warm on a windy night. One knelt next to him, carving into his skin like some kind of master sculptor. They finished, cocked their head to the side as though to examine their work, then grabbed a handful of something- it might've been sand or salt or something else- and smeared it into his open sores. He screamed again. Tearing at his throat.
They didn't stop.
They never stopped.
His head was exploding. Or maybe it was crumping inwards, caving in on itself, a structure finally collapsing. Then there was a spark, the sizzle of electricity, the crackle of the flames- and he was on fire. His whole body seared with a blazing agony he couldn't fully describe. Could hardly comprehend. And there might've been someone else screaming alongside him.
But he wouldn't know, because that's when his heart gave out.
going through some old documents and ive stumbled across an old minecraft story mode fic that i started but never finished... does anyone want to see it? im not going to continue it but i kinda like it
Warning for somewhat graphic injury and pain detail
APHONIA
Burning fire pumped through flesh and bone with each thump of their heart. It spread through the insides of their skull, seeping into the crevices of their brain, throbbing in their ears. There was no pinpointing where it was focused, where it hurt the most, because it was everywhere. They were sinking in lava, folds of torn skin searing hot and bubbling blood, a blinding, consuming agony that left them unable to even scream. Who could blame them, really, for not resisting the comforting tug of unconsciousness?
Dragging open heavy eyelids proved to be a challenge. When he got them open, just a squint, the world around him was unfocused, blurring together like paint in water. Their head and throat pulsed, pressing spikes of pain through his skin. Their mouth was dry. Jesse let his eyes slip closed.
"Hey! Hey, are you awake?"
He tried to groan, but all that came out was a rasp of breath. They dragged their eyes open with some effort, like he was trying to lift a fallen tree; it took a long moment for them to actually focus on the dirty face peering down at him.
Gill's eyes (which looked odd in the lighting, in his blurring vision, but Jesse was too tired to care) went wide and he twisted around to look over his shoulder.
"Guys, she's awake!"
There was movement, another voice answering, but Jesse's eyes had slid shut at some point. Their breathing rasped in their lungs, like something heavy was sitting on their chest, weighing down their ribs. He might have just been about to slip back underneath the surface, sink into soft darkness, had he not been so rudely interrupted by something being pressed against his lips.
He choked, fire flaring in his throat, and tried to turn his head away; something held his head still. Cold, soothing water spilled into his mouth and dribbled down his throat. The minute they felt it against his lips, Jesse was drinking eagerly, even though swallowing was like razor teeth digging into the meat of his throat. He tasted blood in his mouth.
The cup was pulled away and Jesse tried to follow it, but their head was too heavy. They slumped back down, the pain in his throat blazing away. They squeezed their eyes shut. As though that would take it away.
A finger tapped against his cheek.
"Can you hear us?"
Jesse reluctantly dragged open his eyes again, blinking blearily. Maya and Gill were hovering over him, features marred with heavy shadows; he tried to say their names, but all he could do was from the silent letters on his lips and struggle to breathe. The two glanced at each other.
"You're pretty badly hurt," said Maya, "Like, a lot. We thought you were dead when we found you."
"You had this really bad cut on your throat," Gill said, his fingers absently trailing up to his own neck, a faint grimace crossing his face as though the memory was particularly unpleasant, "S'probably why you can't really talk…"
Jesse blinked slowly a few times, struggling to process this when his brain felt like it was being turned into mashed potatoes. Finally, he just let his head slump back down, his eyes closing. A part of him whispered that he really shouldn't sleep again, that something he wasn't entirely sure of was horribly wrong, but he was far too tired and he fell asleep to muffled murmurs.
They drifted in and out of consciousness, floating near the bottom of a lake, water swelling in their ears. The cup was brought back to his lips every now and again, but half the time he was so tired and his throat hurt so badly that he couldn't bring himself to swallow, instead just letting it trickle down his throat while trying not to choke. The pain persisted, dragging him under the surface, suffocating and burning. All he could do was try to sleep.
Eventually, when Jesse woke up, they were aware enough to register that they were staring up at the ceiling of a cave. The floor was hard against their aching bones, but there was something smooth and soft beneath their head. He dragged his eyes away from the ceiling to take in his surroundings.
It was less of a cave and more of a dent in a cliff face. The entrance had been blocked off with dirt and a rickety door shoved into place; the room (if you could really call it a room) was lit with the warm glow of torches. There was a crafting table and a chest and… and Aiden, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. The burn scar on Jesse's leg itched.
He held his breath, heart in his throbbing throat. When Aiden didn't move, and with neither Maya nor Gill in sight, Jesse finally took a few steadying breaths. He opened his mouth to call out to him, to ask something, to say something, but all it did was make the buzzing ache in his throat sear with a blinding agony.
Jesse jerked, grimacing and squeezing his eyes shut, hand coming up to hover over his throat but not daring to touch. He breathed heavily, curling in on himself, boots scraping against the cave floor. His hands trembled. He blinked back tears.
When the pain finally subsided just enough that they didn't feel like they were going to pass out, Jesse dragged his eyes up and might have jumped had they had the energy. Aiden had moved at some point and was kneeling next to them, watching them and… his eyes. His eyes were oddly discoloured, a pale, sickish sort of purple. Just like Gabriel's had been.
Aiden shook the bottle he had in his hand, "Do you want some water?"
Jesse's eyes focused on the bottle. Aiden seemed to decide that might as well be a yes, because he shifted closer and offered it to them. They took the bottle with a shaky, unsteady hand and carefully sipped. It soothed his dry mouth, his throbbing throat- if only a little. Although quite a bit ended up missing his mouth and soaking the collar of his sweater.
When he was done, Aiden corked the bottle and set it aside. They fell into a somewhat awkward silence. Jesse was already growing tired.
"Can you talk?" Aiden asked, after a long moment. Jesse opened his mouth, but a small spike of pain (in warning, almost) made him stop. He closed it again and instead gave a careful, sluggish shake of his head. Aiden didn't look surprised.
"That, uh… yeah. That sucks," he fiddled with one of the loose buttons on his shirt, flicking it about on its thin string, a bit absently, "The other two went out to find food. You remember them? They're the ones that found you."
Jesse stared at him, because of course he remembered Maya and Gill, he'd known them for years- quite against his will, as most of the time he didn't want anything to do with them or Aiden, considering how awful they all tended to be to him and his friends, but it would be ridiculous to suggest that he didn't know them.
And yet…
And yet Aiden's face wasn't malicious. Wasn't a mean sneer or a crude joke or a roll of the eyes. He regarded Jesse almost blankly, detached, as though he didn't recognise them as anything other than a stranger. He had no memory of them. No memory of the bullying, no memory of being downright awful to them, and likely no memory of Maya or Gill or Lukas or even himself. Just like Gabriel had been when he'd dragged Jesse out of the tugging reach of the Command Block, before… before…
Aiden shifted into a more comfortable position on the hard ground, blowing out a sigh, "They should be back soon. Hopefully with some more wool to change your bandage."
Jesse blinked at him a little. They dragged up their hand to lightly, lightly brush their fingers against their throat; there was a fuzzy, makeshift bandage there. They let their hand drop back down to their side.
Aiden looked at them, "We've got some apples… you want one?"
At that, Jesse's stomach cramped painfully. They gave a careful nod, trying not to jostle their neck; Aiden climbed to his feet and pulled open the chest in the corner, starting to rummage through it. He came back with an apple and pushed it into Jesse's hands.
"Uh, here."
He sat back down. Jesse brought the apple to their mouth and, despite the ache and grumble of their stomach, was only able to scrape at the bruised skin with their teeth. They chewed sluggishly, and swallowing sent stabbing pinpricks through their throat. He kept taking small bites. About a quarter of the way through the apple, he started to taste blood and pus at the back of his throat.
They passed out at some point. When they woke up again, the little specks of light that had been squeezing through the cracks of the front door had faded away, leaving only the dull flickering of the torches. He could hear the blood-freezing groan and hiss and clatter of wandering monsters just on the other side.
Gill and Maya had come back; the three Ocelots were curled up on the floor, staying near the more well-light areas of the cave, and far from the door. They were trying to sleep. Emphasis on the trying part. The lack of beds certainly wasn't helping.
REWRITTEN VERSION
Burning, blistering flames pulsed through flesh and bone. Each thump of their heart sent it spiking, throbbing, blazing. It spread through the insides of their skull, seeping into the crevices of their brain, aching and thumping in their ears. There was no pinpointing the cause, the focus, where it hurt the most, because there was nothing else they were aware of. It might as well have been everywhere, sinking in lava, folds of torn skin searing hot and bubbling blood, a blinding, consuming sort of agony that left them unable to even scream. Who could blame them, really, for not resisting the comforting tug of unconsciousness?
Awareness flickered in and out like broken film. There were dark skies and purple lights. There was the metallic tang of blood at the back of his throat, trickling into his mouth like the crack in the wall of a burst well. But mostly, there was just blistering pain, and so they were always rather eager to slip away again.
It was the squeals that really dragged him back to consciousness. A wet snout nudging his head, whining softly, worried and small and familiar enough that his chest gave an awful ache. He tried to groan, but all that came out was a wheeze of air and a painful spike in his throat. Dragging their eyes open took far more effort than it had ever had before; they might as well have been trying to lift the thick trunk of a fallen tree.
When they were finally able to drag them open, Jesse's world was a blur, paint spilling into water. A pink blob was nose to nose with him, and a particularly excited squeal pierced his ears and made him grimace weakly. The pink blob nuzzled him, whined softly, and started to lick his face.
Jesse dragged up an arm to try and push him off, to try and hold him, to smile and laugh, but their limbs were numb and dead and their skin sparked with flickering pain. They let it flop back down, breathing rasping in their chest. The little pig whined, but they were already slipping under the surface.
When they opened their eyes again, the sky was the pale grey-blue of early morning, a chill leaving goosebumps prickling up their arms. Reuben was still there, curled up against his side in a little pink ball. A little bit of relief melted in Jesse's chest at having him closeby.
His throat was pulsing, throbbing with a horrible pain that made him afraid to move. Jesse licked their lips and found their mouth uncomfortably dry. Their whole body ached. How long had they been out here?
2.Are you gonna leave it as it is or will you delete it?
Answer whenever u want to, I’m just curious
I've just answered the first question haha (basically a no) but for the second one, I'm just leaving it how it is! i may not be continuing movie mode, but it was still a big part of my life for a few years and is one of the reasons i met my girlfriend of five years
Hey since the stories done can I ask what the plans were for all the villains, like were they going to be redeemed like Aiden or …?
gonna be honest, this was a story that i started on a whim with no plans back when i was 14, so any thoughout ideas or plot points i had are very faint now gjdkaha. i think i had less plans for redemption and more plans for, like... trying to humanise the characters and make them a little more grey-coded leaning towards evil rather than outright evil just for the sake of being evil. So, like, Hadrian would still be enemies with Jesse and he doesn't deserve forgiveness for what he did to them, but he'd protect people he cares about (but would never admit it) like Mevia and Cassie. I had this idea that he and a lot of the other Old Builders have really bad control issues (which is why they're so manipulative and controlling about the games) and had wanted to explore that.
Romeo, though, was going to get at least semi-redeemed (alhough maybe not forgiven for a lot of things) because @arizaluca and I have this concept that Fred's death was accidental/done in the spur of the moment out of anger rather than something he, you know, plotted. In particular our idea is that he tried to teleport Fred away to get him to leave him alone, but you can't really teleport another Admin and in the process, Romeo exploded his heart. Also because he's an Admin, Fred ended up not quite dying right and was instead trapped in a pocket dimension (i.e. the mansion) somewhere between existance and not, and the lack of a heart slowly corrupted him into the wispy black monster that likes to frighten people at random.
So basically Romeo went a bit mad after accidentally murdering his friend, and with his powers severely limited in the mansion and after seeing how things end in the episodes, he's pretty much forced to face things. I think I also had this idea that by the end of the fic, they'd have found the pieces of Fred's heart and he'd finally be able to move on properly.
Anyway those were the big things i had planned villain-wise, as far as I can remember.
Does anyone ride horses (aside from escaping the witherstorm)?
Jack: Hm, not particularly... useful for adventuring long distances, but no one really seems to do simple horse-riding regularly. Although we did see that the older Lukas has a horse of his own, so perhaps in the future.
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