The first one up and vanished, just forget I mentioned him
And the second just made others live and die however the hell she wanted
Third one is a mirthful clown who laughed at his own blood
And the fourth knows that we're just machines but doesn't have the eyes to see us scream
The fifth supports little girls and boys – but forgets when they grow up
The sixth one is corrupted by every filthy heart she touches
Seventh never cries or feels, efficiency is all
And the eighth gets anything she wants, gold and slaves, the world and everything
This life is a game played by a circle of gods
They don't care for your life
Try to escape
But you know the path you're on is already set
See how the game of sburb is playing all of us for fools
Weaving fate around us, making all these silly rules
See how the timeline loops, trapping us all in this show
Load it up and let's see which head will roll...
The ninth knows better than to fix us when we're so full of lies
The tenth one is a preacher, knows us f***asses are all so useless
Next one, the eleventh, won't forget you when you die
The twelfth finds the light in the dark but has long since stopped asking why
The things that this game can do, they're so crazy
Deciding everyday
Try to escape but
the timeline loops and keeps you here to stay
See how the game of sburb is never won, you only play
Reject it and you'll always find you're doomed and thrown away
Clinging to your fate and blame it whenever life won't go your way
Such a laugh, ha! Life is just a game
Will your death be judged as heroic
or maybe justly deserved
Try to play it
Why not try your luck and see what you may get?
See how the game of sburb is playing all of us for fools
Weaving fate around us, making all these silly rules
See how the timeline loops, trapping us all in this show
Load it up and let's see which head will roll...
Skaia glowing downward, visions dancing in the clouds
An illuminated chessboard, "Ah, yes, this is paradise."
Fighting black and white but the end is already known
Ah, look down at all the pieces here
Ah, look up at all the god tiers.
more godstuck dancestors! (since that's a thing i’m doing now i GUESS)
when these two got married everyone probably broke into nervous hives--as u do when misfortune and discord decide they want to enter into an eternal union
Your name is Roxy Lalonde, and you are about to break your employment contract.
You, however, have decided to pray to the Sylph. You need to talk to her about fast-forwarding the timeline for humanity's interplanetary travel. Specifically, whether you could get functional, self-sustaining colonies in other star systems some time in the next few years.
The punishment for breaking this contract is termination, and you are 98% sure that this does not only mean termination of employment. You've always been on good terms with the gods, but you still know you may be putting your life on the line. But so many other lives are on the line as well, you would have to be unbelievably evil not to do it.
You're shaking. You kneel down and open your mouth to speak the words of the prayer, but before you can pronounce a single syllable, a goddess appears. It's not the Sylph. It's the Seer, her face split by sharp smile.
Your heart skips a beat and you make a strangled sound, but she waves her hand airily. "Take a seat. I'm not here to kill you."
"But," your voice is strained. "I-"
"You haven’t done anything yet. And mere intent is not, in itself, a crime. Usually. I’m not going to execute you for your data excavation escapade, either.”
You swallow. She knows about that, already? It was only a few hours ago that you'd hacked the corporate server, digging in as deep as you could go, drilling past one firewall after another, unraveling encryption after encryption. You'd found that the endgame for SkaiaCorp, as a company, is to create a virtual reality program that has an effect in real, living reality, that blends the two until they are indistinguishable, and eventually empowers its users to create an entirely new universe and rule it as gods. The only casualty would be the Earth itself.
You're so afraid that you feel sick from it, and along with that, you're shaking with rage. The company you've worked at for five years is engineering the apocalypse, and you've been bamboozled by the living gods themselves to help it along. You want to throw your computer monitor at the Seer, or throw a broken bottle at her, or maybe just throw up.
The Seer's smile is opaque. "So, you know about the Game. That's inconvenient."
Inconvenient?? You can't believe it. You are going to do an acrobatic fucking pirouette off the handle. You are going to let her have it.
"How could you do this to us?" you shout. "To the entire world?"
"You're angry," the Seer observes, nodding and still, infuriatingly, smiling. "Understandable, given the circumstances. I’m going to save us some time by issuing an abstract of this conversation: You are going to call me insane, cruel, terrible—plenty of unkind things,” she says, counting them off on her fingers. “You will also express despair and horror that your planet will be destroyed. You will tell me that I should be ashamed, that I should apologize for involving you in such a vicious, evil project. Et cetera, et cetera.”
You clench your fists and consider striking the Seer, but the goddess holds up a finger. "You have not yet committed a capital crime, but be careful, lest I find you in contempt of court,” she says, and you remain still. “If I allow your rant to continue, your volume will build and you will talk until your voice becomes hoarse. You will probably cry. In conclusion, it’s nothing that I haven’t heard before.”
You can't bear this, even with her threats looming over your head. You open your mouth, but she interrupts. "Feel free to say everything you were going to, or just call me juvenile names if you prefer. I won't stop you. But you will hear me out, first," she says. There is no room for argument.
Then, the Seer explains. There's no point trying to stop the Game. It's already happened. Your own existence is proof of that, and your divine origins. Fell from the sky on a meteor. If you stopped now, you'd create a paradox, and what then?
"How long do we have?" you ask, finally, voice ragged.
"Sollux projects that the Game will be completed in sixteen years. Aradia says that, between an unusually sticky bug in the code and a freak hurricane that disrupts a critical part of the supply infrastructure, it will be complete in seventeen years and four months.”
Seventeen years. "What if I quit?"
The Seer tilts her head. "You are entwined with this project, and integral to its success. The only way to extricate yourself from this scenario would be to die. Even so, that will only create a doomed timeline. Since you like computers, imagine our timeline, including our future, everything from the beginning of this universe to the completion of the Game, as a program. If something goes wrong—like your absence from the project—then the program crashes, restarts from the last viable saved state, and tries again.”
Your shoulders drop. "So, all of humanity..."
"All on earth, anyway, yes." The Seer pauses. "The... last time that the Game was played, the results were apocalyptic. Only a handful of people survived. But there were unusual factors involved in that case. If we moved some humans off-world, then they would survive. However," she continues, before you can speak up, "you must not speak of this to the Sylph. Transplanting your entire species is untenable —suffice it to say there are reasons we have forbidden off-world colonies to humans until you have developed interstellar travel for yourselves— but she will not see it that way. Unlike the creation of the Game itself, the fate of humanity is not written in stone. But if you don’t trust us on this—if you so much as insinuate to the Sylph—then rather than saving some of your people, you will lose all of them.”
Your name is Roxy Lalonde, and you're hungover. You are hungover because you drank last night.
You can't believe it. Nine years sober. Nine years. You wrecked it, you awful excuse for a functional human being. Nine years you were sober. Why, why would you-
Oh. Right. Now you remember why.
The world is ending in seventeen years and change, and you're helping it end.
You close your eyes against the light and groan. Gods, this hangover sucks.
Well, you're still here! Not dead. So this is the choice you made.
Your eyelids are not enough of a shield against the bright sunlight streaming through the windows of your home. You put a hand over your eyes. Still not enough. You turn your head into whatever furniture you happen to be laying on, and moan miserably into the sticky upholstery. A scream would be more apropos, but any loud sound is too much right now.
You need to get up. You have responsibilities. You need to feed the cat. Your forehead is making a... crinkling noise?
With great reluctance, you reach up and remove the piece of paper taped to your forehead. Whose idea was that?
Well, it's written in code, so it's probably yours. At least that gives you something to think about other than the end of the world, your headache, and your overall grossness.
The code isn't too hard to break, but now it somehow makes even less sense.
saggy has the awnsers u want
Well, that's dumb. Who or what the hell is a saggy?
Dumb, stupid, stupid. Your name is Roxy Lalonde, you feel like absolute shit, and this stupid note isn't helping.
Well, you'll think about it another time. For now, the world is going to end, and you feel like... you feel like a drink.
Your name is Roxy Lalonde, and you're used to waking up to drunk texts, meaningless encoded notes and scribbles, Rose cuddled up to you, puddles of vomit, and combinations of any and all of the above. Sometimes, you wake up to your skull feeling like it's going to crack open, or to half-forgotten dreams of impenetrable darkness. Once or twice, you've woken to weird bruises on your hands that you can't recall the origins of.
"Rose sweetie, Mom has a hangover," you groan, but school is school and missed busses are missed busses, so you splash water on your face, force down a bit of toast and coffee, and drive your daughter to class.
After the whirlwind of rushing about preparing for the day, you revisit the texts, frowning and squinting at the picture. John, smiling, wearing an adorable dinosaur onesie, surrounded by birthday presents. Not a clown in sight.
You've never known yourself to straight-up _hallucinate _while drunk. Certainly not to hallucinate purple clowns. That's definitely new. You type an apology to Stan, to which he doesn't respond. He may be still asleep, given the time difference.
Anyway, it's time to get to work. You go down to the lab and troubleshoot for a few hours, then take your habitual martini break. Looks like Stan has messaged you back.
I ACCEPT YOUR APOLOGY, ROXY. I KNOW YOU ARE NOT ALWAYS IN CONTROL OF YOURSELF WHEN YOU ARE IN A STATE. BUT YOU MUST REALIZE HOW ALARMING IT IS TO HEAR ABOUT CLOWNS FOR SOMEONE IN OUR SITUATION.
You text back, sipping your glass absently.
Because of the gods?
YES. THE IDEA THAT THE
THAT ONE, IN PARTICULAR, IS TARGETING US, IS
TO BE HONEST, 'ALARMING' IS AN UNDERSTATEMENT.
He hardly ever drops off mid-sentence like that. Poor Stan.
I understand. Hes not exactly my cuppa, either.
Speaking of cuppas, it's time to mix yourself another martini.
I'm sory I scared you.
You scroll up to look at the picture of John again. Maybe you should show it to Rose. Wouldn't it be sweet if they could be pen pals? There's something funny about it again, though. You're not quite sure what. Isn't there something purple-ish on the walls? Maybe not clowns, but... something similar to clowns?
YOU ARE FORGIVEN. ARE YOU DRINKING AGAIN?
lol a little. hey are u SURE there are no clowns in your kids rom?
THIS IS REALLY NOT FUNNY ANYMORE, ROXY.
As you take a sip and download the picture, something hazy and strange occurs to you.
could you take another pic of the kids wall? i need to test somethnig
No reply from the other end.
i mean it this is impoortna.
I WISH YOU WOULD STOP DRINKING.
i have my bsest ideas when im drunking.
As you wait for a reply, you squint your eyes at the picture. John. Presents. Onesie. And a certain undeniable clownishness to the walls that you were absolutely sure wasn't there before.
Miraculously, Stan has sent you more pictures. Pictures of the walls, taken apparently from several angles.
They all still give you a clowny feeling, one that's getting stronger with every sip of your martini. You pour yourself a straight shot of vodka, then down it in one. For science.
Every wall of the room is covered in horrible purple clowns.
You have to put the phone down and take a breath. What is this? You giggle. This isn't funny but you giggle.
clnwns everrywere. sencd mor picsf f rooms.
ROXY, IN GOOD CONSCIENCE I SHOULD ASK YOU TO LIE DOWN. IT'S TOO EARLY IN THE DAY FOR THIS.
mor picx stanny
I WON'T ENABLE THIS. IF YOU WANT MORE PICTURES WHEN YOU SOBER UP, I WILL SEND THEM.
You frown at the phone, and continue texting. Why won't he help you with this? There are clowns, awful clowns, all over the walls of his kid's room - isn't that important? You only see them when you're drunk, which maybe means Stan doesn't drink enough to see them. You will fix that. You need to send him something strong. Vodka.
You stagger into your room's private bar, and grab the Grey Goose. Or... would Stan be more of an Absolut guy?
Then you hear a soft noise, look up, and see Him.
You didn't hear anyone come in, but there's a god here, in your house. In your room, with you. His skin is gray. A single horn with an arrow tip arcs up from his head. The other one is broken off, leaving a stump. He's wearing dark glasses and a midnight blue-black hood with a trailing end that drags on the ground. He's long-haired and unreasonably tall. And fuck, this guy is built.
Your mouth feels like it's lagging several minutes behind your mind. "What're you doing...? In my...?" Then you blink. You were raised in a legal seminary. And yet... you don't know which god this is.
"It's alright, Roxy," he says, his voice softer than you expected. You relax instinctively, like hearing the voice of an old friend. Who is this? "I know you don't remember me. But you need to trust me when I tell you we have met before."
"How'd you...?"
"You told me where you keep your spare key." The god smiles, almost apologetically. His teeth are perfect and sharp. "Under the flower pots beside the outer stairwell."
"But..." Your mind is whirling. Who is this??? "Who....?"
"You call me Sagittarius." The air around him shimmers, and he's now wearing a magnificent, midnight blue fitted suit, emblazoned on the arms and legs with white symbols of sagittarius, and silver cufflinks that look somewhat like the spiraling sigil for space.
Saggy! The notes! The missing god! GODS, it all makes sense! "You," you manage. "Talk to me. When 'm like this, and I don't remember. Why?"
"This is the only time you can see me. It is not an ideal situation. But if I appeared to you otherwise, the other gods would know I was here. They must not know I'm here, lest they join to war against me. I need to wait for the exact right time."
You blink, really only retaining half of it. "You don' like em."
Sagittarius nods. "I do not support the project to recreate the Game, which involves you. So, I must submit to my situation."
"Yeah well, join the clubbo bucko." If you drink any more, you might not be able to hold your end of the conversation, but you're tempted.
"You've said as much previously, yes."
Hell. You reach for the nearest bottle (Grey Goose? Why did you take that out?) but Sagittarius takes your hand in his. His grip is powerful, almost painful, but not quite. You're too sloshed to care. Instead, you giggle. "Holdin' hands now, handsome? Take me t' dinner first."
He breaks out in a sweat. "You wouldn't remember it, if I had."
You giggle, though you're not sure if that's a joke.
He takes off his sunglasses to stare into your unfocused eyes, and his gaze is as blue as the sea. "D --> 100k at me, Ro%y. You must write a note to yourself. You need to tell your boss, the Mage, that John Egbert is in e%treme danger from the Bard, and that he must move to protect the boy. You must write this to yourself e%actly, with as few mistakes as possible, so you remember it later."
His grip on your hand tightens, very slightly, and you feel like he's millimeters from snapping your finger bones. You feel no fear at all.
"Oh," you say. "Okay, then. I've got some um, questions."
He smiles again. "For you, I will answer all of them."
You wake up to a pounding headache, a bruised hand, Rose sleeping on the porch, a bunch of pictures of blank walls from Stanley, and a coded note stuffed into your brassiere.
When you finally get around to decoding it, you're shocked to see that the note is actually meaningful this time.
tell him drunks clowns are from Bard. protec kid.
You're not sure, at first, whether to believe yourself. Your drunk self is not necessarily dependable. After all, you apparently stole the spare key from under the flowerpot in your last drunken spree, which was unfortunate for poor Rose, who had to wait outside until you woke up in the wee hours of the morning.
Anyway, you do tell Stan about the 'drunk clowns' being from the Bard. He seems to take it pretty seriously, and asks how to assuage the Carnivale's wrath. You are not sure, but suggest that he display respect for clowns.
The next time you video chat, he's got a clown painting framed on his wall, plain as sober day.
<==
tfw you remember that you still have like three entire trolls to finish
((EDIT: accidentally uploading the wrong file and not noticing for like an hour oops heres a tz with not-so-shit lines))
