A little late to the party because i was out of town, but I can finally post the finished illustration I did for the @rendogzine ! I had the pleasure of doing a piece for Misadventures ✨
This was such an amazing opportunity, and such a blessing to get to work along side so many incredibly talented artists and writers 💖 The pdf of the whole zine is available for free! FREE!! Please go download it and check out all the people who worked very hard to put this thing together. MASSIVE thank you to the moderators for running and organizing all of this!
(Also, Ren already saw this and I’m??? AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH almost cried it’s surreal)
I TOTALLY FORGOT THAT I NEVER POSTED MY PIECE IN REN THE ZINE
(you can click at the link to appreciate others work!!!!!!! theres such cool pieces)
it's actually the first zine i ever participated and i very thankful to mods to making it understandable and easy-going
the art was for foolcraft s.2 it was a fun ride and i really didn't know how can i add a lot of things in one piece of art but here it is!!! my man is having fun
Midnight stitched us together - a Wild Life inspired RenTheZine fic!
I had the pleasure to participate in @rendogzine - a zine dedicated to Rendog and his incredible content throughout the years. My job was to create a story based on his Wild Life series, so of course I had to make it about the freak that was Martren :3
Hope you enjoy it!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
My piece for @rendogzine!!! I'm super happy with how it turned out :)
For anyone not familiar with Ren's earlier work, this piece is based off of his UHC where he was teamed with Scar!
Go check out the rest of the zine!!!!! There are some truly amazing pieces in here!
And so Ren enters the simulation that will entertain his mind, and the dream, that has already begun, begins. It is deep, as deep as the empty void it fills with light and life and colour; it is deep, and the self sleeping cannot hear the panicked voice emanating from the intercom:
“Operator Goat Man, man, I think we have a problem…”
My contribution to @rendogzine, following HC8 and everything Hermatrix. Thank you to everyone involved in this – the mod team were absolutely wonderful, keeping everything running so smoothly, and every contribution was so incredible! And of course, thank you to Ren himself for his wonderful stories. You can find the zine in the pinned post of the blog.
AO3 here! CW questioning reality.
(also thank you @boonbeenblade for your fic posting format which i definitely didn't copy)
–––
What is ‘reality’?
Is it the warm, wet breeze on the coast tickling you as it dances through your hair, the scent of saltwater mixing with the dry, fragrant smoke from your weekly barbecues? The damp fur of one goat soft beneath your non-cybernetic hand, your laughter as you stack dozens to playfully outdo the “Boatem Pole” next door? The echoes of your voice on the deepslate and diamonds of an underground chamber; the soft strands of golden wheat brushing you in rolling fields; the thunderous roar of a million lightning strikes hitting the earth. Is this ‘reality’?
Or is ‘reality’ the cold, clinical contents of a cryogenic chamber? A solitary starship suspended in a vacant void? A vacuum with no sound or smell or touch, where the only light stems from stars that may be long gone; where for all its miles and miles, your starship may as well be an infinitesimal insect, migrating towards a world not yet formed and away from a world that never was?
One is an existence you have known but never lived; the other is an existence you have lived but barely know. One is the dream you remember, while the other is the slumber you do not. When the time comes for you to awaken, which will your heart hold as ‘true’?
On a chain of islands by a vast continent – or, perhaps, in a distant section of a spacecrawler – this is a question that Ren, soon, will have to answer.
But there is time in the slumber yet.
–––
It starts like this.
In the aftermath of a furious battle in the Valley of Tatooren, a fallen stargazer is rescued by the hippie Renbob in his interstellar caravan. They travel to the planet HC-8, inviting an abandoned Goatfather aboard along the way; gradually, the stargazer’s damaged limbs are replaced with prosthetics, and the contents of his brain with goat trivia. After a long journey, the glittering world appears in the distance: vast oceans catch the light, playing with it before throwing it back in a myriad of different directions; green, yellow, orange, and white form marbled mosaics the waves cannot touch. The atmosphere clings to the cube like a blue, shimmering veil while the bright moon observes it from a distance, beautiful yet indifferent. Gradually, the blue shifts into a border, and the mosaics turn into a maze one can’t quite glimpse the whole of. Gradually, yet less and less so, the unnatural smoothness pops and pixelates as the illusion of the whole is broken, and Ren finds himself flying above forests made up of hundreds of individual trees; finds himself skimming rivers receiving their rush from tens of tributaries; finds himself landing on a beach formed from a million grains of sand. He has arrived on the northern coast of the communal continent, greeted by sunlight and swells and shipwrecks.
Or, it starts like this. Ren finishes filming a fight with a friend, the smell of sulfur still lingering on his fingertips. He and Doc board Operator Renbob’s hyperspace RV. It takes them to the Hermitheus – a vast starship transporting the Hermits from world to world – and, as it docks in the landing bay, they’re greeted by a hiss as both sets airlock doors open, then close, leaving them free to roam the interior during their journey to the planet HC-8.
(They aren’t greeted by clusters of crystals and creeping vines. They aren’t greeted with a virus beginning to infect the ship. Not because it doesn’t exist, but because it’s currently undiscovered.)
Still, as always, the journey between seasons is long: light takes years to sketch out paths between lonely, liveable planets. And so Ren enters the simulation that will entertain his mind, and the dream, that has already begun, begins. It is deep, as deep as the empty void it fills with light and life and colour; it is deep, and the self sleeping cannot hear the panicked voice emanating from the intercom:
“Operator Goat Man, man, I think we have a problem…”
But the self dreaming does. He’s wide awake and laughing, pulled by underwater currents, diving deep for a glimmer of blue Mumbo has dropped while playfully flaunting stolen riches. He seizes it, clutches it tight and, prize in hand, swims back to the H.S.S Rendoc — where he is greeted by a puzzle.
Ren can’t make heads nor tails of the book, which isn’t surprising, but neither can Doc, certified technical genius. And that isn’t even the strangest detail. The author is missing — and not simply from the page. Ren looks at the name and finds himself gazing into an empty, soundless expanse where every inch is filled with crawling and screaming and roiling lifeforms, where upwards is husk and downwards is cyan and sideways is the tearing of paper. He only catches a glimpse, because earlier than instantly – before he glances – his head aches, and he has to focus on the rocking of the wood, the chirping of his parrot, and that familiar wet, salty scent for a good while before he feels normal again. They say that staring into the void will drive one mad, and this is far stranger than the void could ever be.
He looks away. But through this dimensionless dimension, there is a solitary starship suspended in a vacant void. Within this starship, three voices converse.
“Connection established.”
“Thank you, computer, man! I just knew we could do it, man.”
“We can proceed to the second phase of the plan. Sending schematics for Power Node One.”
–––
The message pings into Ren’s communicator as he’s building amethyst tendrils in his underground treasure room-slash-sewer. His arms are full of spectral, singing crystals — or, immersively, solidified gloop — and he might have mistaken it for another chime if not for the accompanying vibration.
Name: “The Shchematic”
Creator: Goat Man
[open pocket universe]
Intrigued, Ren clicks. And suddenly his plans for the day are derailed.
“...But my dude, some weird stuff’s been happening in the interbubs,” he tells Doc a few days later, the crackle of an underground campfire between them. Its light reflects off the surrounding crystals, and their glow seems almost real. “Once again, some people are droppin’ some weirdness on us. This time, they sent us a Shchematic.”
Doc’s eyes abandon his roasting fish. “What?”
“I’ve been getting schematics in my messages. Like, a link to a schematic in a superflat dimension. Have you seen it?”
Understanding dawns under the red light of the fire. “Messages?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve gotten some in signs and books as well.”
“Yeah!” Ren chirps, wagging his tail – his suggestion should go more smoothly, then. “It looks pretty cool, whatever that thing is that’s in the schematic. So…”
“I mean,” Doc starts, and Ren spiritually crosses his fingers, “why not include a suggested build from somebody into our base?”
He beams. Success! “Yeah! I think it’s a beautiful idea. We will build it, they want us to build it, they sent us the Shchematic, we shall make it, Doc.” At that, he composes his expression into something solemn and stares towards the ceiling, adopting his theatre voice. “And we shall make it glorious also!”
And so it’s decided: the plans for the Rendoc Shopping Empire and the OctaBlaster8000 are put on hold in favour of building what might best resemble a mechanical bacteriophage powered by an axolotl. When they are finished, copper arms are arching towards the sky and seizing it, ripping away the ground in a bid to get closer, an orb of atmospheric blue clutched in four fingers. When they are finished, they sit exhausted on a nearby treetop, the searing sun pushing and pulsing with every heartbeat. Sweat dwells dangerously close to the cybernetic implants of both. Neither has any idea of what they’ve just created: Doc, with all his technical knowledge, is clueless, and Ren feels a creeping sense of deja-vu.
They try for the rest of the day to figure out a function. The air seems to grow heavy around them; high overhead, water droplets meet and merge and form thick, stifling blankets. The world is waiting. The world is static.
Then, the lightning strikes.
It’s as if every heartbeat of the beating sun has struck at once. The world ignites: the long, oppressive stasis has acted like a drought before a forest fire, leaving everything able to burn. The sky roars as it’s torn apart, pain never-ending; it takes vengeance by pounding writhing limbs into the lower world again and again and again, by burning the clouds around it with siphoned solar flares. But all its rage — all its power — is forced into one spot only: the very centre of the Shchematic, of Power Node One.
As Ren and Doc stare from the treetops, redstone lamps brighten along its body. They do not know what this means. But in a distant section of a spacecrawler, two figures wait with bated breath, their eyes fixed on a darkened screen. Their hearts pulsate like stars, a war raging between the apprehension wanting to collapse from without, and the hope that energises from within. Discussing the fear risks disrupting the balance; disrupting the balance risks causing a nova. Therefore, they discuss related, but lighter, topics.
“Why did you have to call it the Shchematic, bro?”
“Hey, man, it was you who said we couldn’t let the Hermits know they’re in a simulation, man!”
There is a short — but fond — sigh. Then, from behind the figures:
The figure on the right lets out a breath. “That’s great, man! The Hermits are safe for a while, man!”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“But it is not enough.”
–––
It’s not enough: the piles of diamonds and derpcoin Doc and Ren have are meagre, barely able to even be called piles and not some sort of… tiny bumps. It’s downright shameful, frankly.
This is something they’re about to fix.
Enter the Octagon: a monstrous megashop of copper and deepslate, the dragon soon to hoard all wealth on the server, a project so large Ren needs to build three farms before he can even start the thing, and not quite the key to Armageddon.
(“Are you sure about this, man? This Moonatrix thing is a bit freaky, man, I’m worried for the Hermit’s brains, man!”
“They have followed the co-ordinates already. And-”)
But it will be.
The paper trail hasn’t stopped; moths drawn to a locksmith’s flame, Ren and Doc follow. Soon, the Octagon’s roof sprouts another Schematic. Though small, its orb is the red of a sun about to go supernova; the air around it buzzes, thrums, pulses crimson with bridled energy and that familiar, drought-like suspense.
(“-We cannot risk the alternative.”)
At the Octagon’s grand opening, Doc wires it to a lightning coil. There, he powers it on, and the redstone lamps along its spine ignite. There, the power of a billion scorching suns bursts forth and shoots through the skies in one razor-thin beam.
The key turns in the lock-
And the apocalypse – salvation – begins.
–––
[ANTIVIRUS OCTAGON ONLINE. COMMENCING OPERATION MOONATRIX… LINK ESTABLISHED: 54.]
–––
It starts like this: the moon is big.
It also starts slowly. Ren doesn’t even notice at first, too caught up in the first week’s sales figures. But the moon is big, and the moon is growing, and this will come to haunt Ren very soon.
([47])
Not yet. The first sales meeting goes well.
([40])
He starts work on a new project: the gothic village of Octatown.
([33])
Copper sales are up. The bargain bin has taken a hit.
([26])
Doc's new bridge looks incredible. The moon, Ren notes, seems abnormally large?
([19])
Ren's first quake.
He’s in a meeting, about to cover redstone purchases, when the ground suddenly lurches beneath him. There’s no damage done; it's over in a second. But the tremors continue in Ren’s limbs, not least because of Doc’s nonchalant reaction.
(“I told you. We have earthquakes now,” he says, as the two of them look out towards a sky that should be black, but is instead the deep sapphire of dusk. The pearl it surrounds shines too brightly to be natural.)
They discuss the end of the world. Ren pulls it back to sales figures.
([12])
The quakes have continued; Ren, concernedly, is growing used to them.
As long as they're coming from below.
It’s a fine day: the sun is bright as it breathes life into the golden fields of Octatown, and the burning tension in Ren’s limbs is slowly eased in the absence of silver, searing moonlight. He’s chatting with Doc by the seaside, gazing Doc’s bridge, when suddenly-
The blast sends waves fleeing, crashing against the shore. Hot, stinging sand is sent whipping across Ren’s face, and he can only thank fate for the sunglasses he wears. But it’s not the shore that bears the brunt of the impact.
No. All too nearby, Ren’s first build – his chicken farm – is nothing but ash. All that remains is a moon rock. And the moon rock-
–––
“I don’t think the Hermits can figure it out in time, man, we need to help them, man!”
A pause. Uncomfortable.
“…There is one thing we can do. But they will need to be careful. It may break their minds.”
–––
-The moon rock talks.
we can save them all, it murmurs to Ren, haunted day and haunted night. bring me their heads… bring me their heads… not long now… And now Ren is that shore, battered by waves of whispers, self slowly but surely eroded by the pull of the moon. As they recede, the waves deposit…
Facts about potatoes?
Did you know the sweet potato isn’t a real potato?
(“Hey, you said to keep it cryptic, man!”)
As the moon draws ever nearer, the battering increases. Ren can’t sleep. Every waking hour is occupied by potatoes. He’s not sure what to fear more: the end of the world, or the end of his mind. He resorts to keeping a diary. At some point, Doc builds a portal. The diary is not edible, but edible paper is made from potato starch.
Eleven days pass. And finally, he realises what he has to do.
–––
[1]
–––
Two figures stand around a moon rock, as three voices speak. “His name is Mumbo Jumbo.”
For the sake of the moon, they must destroy the potato. The potato… named Mumbo Jumbo.
The figures fly to Boatem in the dead of a night as bright as day, skirting the many skybound pillars of blocks. Mumbo Jumbo notices them in confusion. They greet Mumbo Jumbo with cobwebs and the [Order of Octa]. They gift his head to the moon rock.
Its commands do not cease.
“His name is Grian.”
“His name is Cubfan.”
“His name is Keralis…”
Over and over and over, a name is met with cobwebs, potions, and an axe. When the call is for Ren and Doc’s own blood, they sacrifice it gladly. Ren’s world is a haze, his only trackable path the scent of iron, and he’s reminded of another world he’s just returned from: the nausea after a successful hunt is an uncomfortable acquaintance. But after eight victims, after Doc’s head is presented, the moon’s whispers finally, finally… stop.
The moon does not.
–––
[Server shutdown in: 60 minutes.]
Two figures cross their fingers.
–––
The world is ending. It’s not hard to figure out. Some have fled to other dimensions; some wait beneath it all. Most have left the way half the terrain has: upwards.
Doc and Ren, meanwhile, wait in the Octagon’s office, by the barbecue beach they've brought to every meeting. They don't look at the moon outside.
(They don’t have to. They’re already floating.)
Eight murders. Eight heads. Eight observers in the portal Doc has built.
One hope.
It’s all they’re afforded. It’s all they need.
The world around them is glitching dissolving crashing ripping apart around them as they imagine running (floating) to the disconnect terminal portal. Ren’s organic arm is slippery with sweat that travels upwards, and he almost loses his heads to the sky as he shoves them against the observers, hoping against hope that they won't be torn away before the terminal activates, if it activates. His legs wrap around the portal’s limbs as he claws his way closer to the ground. The world is ending. The world is being saved. The simulation is being cleared of all data and viruses.
([Moonatrix active in 180… 170…])
Six code matches placed. Two more to go. Doc places his final head; Ren stretches out his fingertips, pixels away-
([ 160…])
-And lightning flashes, powering the disconnect terminal. There’s no time to celebrate: immediately, Doc and Ren's avatars are jumping through, frantic, falling – they enter – and cease to resemble anything other than the code they were.
(…Were they really?)
(...Was that it?)
A few dozen blocks away, a mechanical voice broadcasts a message to two familiar figures. “Hermatrix version eight is shutting down.”
Goat Man speaks. ‘Severing all links to the main net.”
“Hermatrix main net offline.”
…
Hermatrix main net offline.
…
How do you even react, in such a situation?
Do you grieve for the breeze, the goats, the underground chamber? Does a mind’s reality merit mourning, or do you keenly celebrate the ‘real’ minds now safe? For some, it is simple-
“We seem to have it all under control now, Operator Goat Man! The Moonatrix Protocol cleared up that infection like nobody’s business, man!”
“Indeed my friend, indeed.”
-As this world was never real to them.
For the dreamers, things are more complicated.
Their slumber is paper-thin, now; in minutes, it will be time to awaken. But unlike natural dreams, memories of simulations are enduring, not ephemeral. And so there will be an eternal question in their minds as they grapple with what they’ve lost, if they’ve lost, if it matters:
2087
prguitarman
turnnoffyourmind
areudirty
dailybridgerton
