#proprankster writes

[propranksterpropaganda]

STORY TIME, GET YOUR STORY! GET YOUR LORE! @makaversecolon3 @whocaresifwearecrazy (feel free to tag other Jackbox fans, I’m posting this at lunch and don’t have a lotta time)

COTDP: "Tie It Up (VNMTRL Pt. 1)"

*We open on Jackbox, half-head, half-cardboard, all overpowered. He's floating by a gravestone labelled "Paul Reubens", which has a rainbow-dyed bouquet of lilies laid under it.*

Jackbox: Ah. Miss you, man. *pats the stone, hears another cosmic being popping in behind him* Jill or Cookie, Cookie or Jill...*scrunches his forehead, turns around* Cookie! *apparates two black, twig-like arms beside his box to lightly hug Cookie around the clock-head*

Cookie Masterson: *with his clock hands whirring a bit faster than usual and his fez slightly askew* Jack, we got a real pickle on our paws.

Jack: I like pickles. *sticks his tongue out over his box's rim* Got any? *very mumbled*

Cookie: *pushes the tongue back in with one gloved, floating hand* No. Guy's in trouble.

Jack: *pulls his arms to his sides again* Guy? Guy Towers, the You Don't Know Jack: Sports Guy? One of our closest friends in the past 30 years despite just being a regular human? Jock with a heart of gold? Stretchy powers you gave him for fun? That Guy?

Cookie: Thanks for the exposition. *crosses his arms* He went over to Patch 2 and came back poisoned or some shit.

Jack: No need to curse. Which game was he at?

Cookie: Bomb Corp. He still looked a little pixelated...I wish I got a picture of that.

Jack: Ok, well, did it seem like anything had blown up in his face? Literally?

Cookie: He said his ears were ringing, but that's about par when you're playing golf with package bombs.

Jack: Ringing ears...*shifts what can be seen of his own ears into little bells and rings them, producing a tinnitus-like sound, before returning them to normal* How is he "poisoned"?

Cookie: *snaps his fingers, summons an utterly empty cookie jar* Not. Even. A crumb.

Jack: *looks inside* Guy's not the type to take the last one...*squints in worry*

Cookie: It's not the only thing he's used his putty arms to grab. *flails his own arms around for emphasis* Sometimes he just reaches them out the window, and they come back with piles of cash...or a diamond...or some dinosaur bone...

Jack: Stealing? Alright, that's not him at all. *poofs off, shot cuts to the hangout where Cookie and Guy (along with Schmitty, Nate Shapiro and Buzz Lippman) spend a lot of their time* TOWERS!

Guy: *rolling a pair of large, cubic gems in his hands; he stretches his fingers into a cage over them when he sees Jack* Hey. What's up?

Jack: *peers over the lip of his box* Wherever you got those, put them back. Now.

Guy: Why should I?

Jack: Wh-why SHOULDN'T you?? What's gotten into you...Cookie told me something happened at Bomb Corp?

Guy: Ohh, the dreams started then, yeah. *says it so nonchalantly, you'd be forgiven for ignoring it...but Jack definitely doesn't*

Jack: Dreams of?

Guy: Green stuff. And long, flat sounds.

Jack: Anything else?

Guy: Ugh, get off my back.

Jack: *puts his little arms on the closest approximation of his hips* Ok. You're definitely, and pardon my language, sick in the head right now.

Guy: And if I am?

Jack: Then we'll have to make you better.

Guy: *stretches one leg out the window* Good luck with that. *turns to where Jack can now see his face*

Jack: *gasps* Your hair!

Guy: *twirls one of the green highlights around his fingers and chuckles* Pretty venomous, right? *vanishes out the window and bounces off with his legs like Elastigirl*

Jack: Ohhhh, no! Not getting away that easy! *conjures a hammer (Jack Attack reference) and flies on it like a broom using his little twiggy legs*

*cut back to Cookie, chilling in the cemetery and tracing circles in the grass*

Cookie: *rolls over onto his back* 10 bucks says Jack punches him.

*The grave, of course, does not respond.*

Cookie: Uh-huh, yeah, you know I'm right. *clock hands go to the neutral 3:45 position* Fuck, I'm bored...*clock hands drop to 5:30 in shock as he sees Guy's legs walk over the whole cemetery in one step* What the SHIT???

Jack: *still flying right behind, voice very faint to Cookie's ears* Nooooooooooo currrrrrrsiiiiiiiiing!

Cookie: *sits up with his hands folded in his laps, takes human form out of surprise* ...Man. I gotta see how this goes. *black-and-white eyes turn to clocks with rapidly spinning hands, throwing his vision into the future (the shot doesn't change, so we can't see what Cookie does)* Ahyeeeesh. Creeps.

*cut to Jack frantically searching for Guy, who has apparently switched to regular running*

Jack: How do you lose someone with stretching powers...*scans the streets for that mop of green-streaked purple hair and locates it in front of a very large, very eerie-seeming house* Uh-oh.

*Looking around the gates in front of the house, Guy finds a tray laid out with a single earbud on it. He puts the earbud in, and his eyes turn a solid green as a monotone, droning sound worms its way into his head. Words emanate from this recording as well, faintly telling Guy to stretch farther and taller and become more extreme in his actions.*

The voice in the earbud: *droning like the sound that goes with it* Do you know...what I want...?

Guy: For me to be better. For my arms to be long enough.

The voice in the earbud: So you need to...

Guy: Steal. Take. Push the limits.

The voice in the earbud: Because isn't that what a strong athlete does...?

Guy: *smiles* Yes. Strong athletes push the limits. And I am a strong athlete.

The voice in the earbud: Perfect. Now...*yawns* It's only 3 PM. Let me sleep a few hours longer...

Guy: Talk to you tonight. *in the deadest voice possible; removes the earbud and sets it down before continuing on back to the hangout like nothing happened (even the glimmers in his hair have vanished)*

Jack: *floats down to meet Guy face-to-face* ...Are you OK?

Guy: *smiles* Yeah. I'm gonna play some ball if you wanna join.

Jack: *blinks* O-ok...just a minute. *poofs back to the cemetery* Cookie, what in all manner of flapjacks is happening? He's NORMAL again!!

Cookie: *shrugs* I did take a pop to the future...some sort of cat-and-dog thing going on in that house over there.

Jack: The one that Guy was JUST AT?

Cookie: Oh. Oh, boy.

*cut to black, followed by two strings of text: One, a normal green, reading, "Why am I behind bones?" The other, far too bright a green, reading, "For me to gnaw on."*

*Another obscenely verdant line appears on its own, saying, "This is all the fun I get with you."*

*The end.*

[propranksterpropaganda]

*ahem* A character study. Out of order since I haven’t written the pilot yet, but what’s that really matter?

Dim Corundum - A Trancehall Scene

There were plenty of things Tyler’d already consigned himself to, working at this weird theater of sorts. He was going to have to meet lots of people and punch their tickets and count the profits versus the expenses…the problem was by no means the doing of the work.

It was how utterly boring this setup was.

“I sold house for some excitement, and what do I get? A bloody coffee addiction!” Thought the young Brit as he swallowed the rest of today’s 5th mug. Already, the headaches were setting in…

Tyler mused, “Really is a blessing and a curse, innit?” Before turning to make sure no one was within earshot. He had a sneaking suspicion that—hm. Yes, better to keep it silent, just in case the boss was listening.

Mystichite, as Trancehall’s founder preferred to be called when on the clock, had a habit of coming into rooms and picking up conversations that he couldn’t have possibly been listening to. It annoyed Tyler as much as it did the other workers, but the guy seemed more sinister than a mere eavesdropper.

Sapphire…as Mystichite insisted on calling Tyler when on the clock…smelled foul play. It had the odor of Bovril, for some reason.

“Now, what is that stuff made of?”

“JESUS, MARY AND JOSEPH!” Tyler leapt in response to Misty’s sudden presence (everyone called him Misty since it had fewer syllables and was easier to yell). “Ahem. ‘Ello, Mystichite.”

“Please.” The taller man smoothed out his mustache, unbothered. “Call me Malachi right now, seeing as you’re still on lunch break.”

Lunch break? And Sapphire…er, Tyler…was still topping off his brew? Had he really been so engrossed in the ticker tape as to lose track of time?

The shorter man shrugged it off and returned to the conversation, his accent now a little thicker as he searched for his behind-the-ticket-booth Keurig. “What’s what made of, boss?”

Checking that his cape was free of dirt, Malachi replied casually, “Bovril. I’ve always been curious.”

His words were a shock to Tyler’s system. “You…n-no one said anything about Bovril.”

Malachi stopped suddenly, covering his mouth and coming closer. “Well, I was thinking of it earlier, you see—“

“NO!” The Briton backed up, knocking the miniature calendar off the desk. The Keurig now forgotten, he launched into a tirade: “You never tell us what we really do here. All you say is, we’re ‘entertaining’ some poor sods, but that could mean anything! You…you read our minds, don’t you?”

Malachi stood, frozen. There were a couple of choices he had…and the best one, he decided, was honesty.

Subtle honesty, that is.

“Look at your name tag.” He intoned, his voice low.

Tyler looked down…the hunk of plastic could hardly be called a “name” tag. All it had on it was a drawing of a blue gem, a “sapphire” reference that didn’t actually mean anything for his identity…

…right?

Tyler gave a brief, confused look into the larger man’s eyes…and suddenly, the tag changed. It did read “Tyler”. “Tyler Atherton”, clear as day. But, that was only something he could see in the reflection of his employer’s gaze…

“What are you doing…?”

“Trying to remind you that you belong here, Sapphire.” Malachi responded, slowly. It was like he was trying to get the idea to bleed its way into Tyler’s…Sapphire’s?…head.

“Stoppit.” The young Brit choked. “W-whatever you’re doing. Stop.”

Malachi was unrelenting. The gentleness was what really made it, for some reason. “You’re going to be ok. I’m not trying to hurt you…just, wanting to check in.”

“What’s my name??” The British kid practically yelped in response. The two terms were bleeding together and hurting horribly in his mental faculties. Who was he, again?

Malachi took his cape and briefly covered his eyes with it, returning the conversation to an apparent state of normalcy. “Start over.” He said numbly. This wasn’t going as he planned. “I can hypnotize people. I’ve done it to you before, but there’s a non-zero chance you’ve forgotten.”

“NON-ZERO????”

“SLEEP ALREADY!”

And in the panic, Ty…*ahem* Sapphire…slipped into a drowsy mess.

“Oh, no, no, no, no!” Mystichite cursed himself under his breath, letting his employee slip to the floor out of fear of touching him. “Sapphire. Sapphire, wake up, I didn’t mean—“

But the damage was done. The young man floated there, lost in a haze. His eyes were foggy and a little greener than usual, and as far as he was concerned, he was entirely alone.

“Ugh…five more minutes, Mum…” was the only response that Misty received. The lunch break would be over any minute, and performances would begin again…how to fix this?

Misty took a deep breath and leaned over the blitzed Sapphire. “Look into my eyes.” He commanded, his voice firm but not overly loud. Those sleepy eyes locked onto his glowing ones. “The last dream you had…can you recall it?”

“…Duckies.” Sapphire hummed in response. “Got some ducks. Coupla eagles.”

Misty rubbed his chin, toying with his mustache for a brief moment. “So, your passion is birds, then.”

“Mmm…went watchin’ once or twice over the pond.” He chuckled, “It was fun…zzz…”

“No, no, no falling asleep, Sapphire.” Still refusing to touch him, Misty made a surprisingly accurate dove sound. He was fairly good at that from his brief stints as a stage magician.

“Mm? Dove? Where’s the dove…” Sapphire sat up, shaking from his daze just long enough to have a useful suggestion inserted.

“At the sound of the bell, you will return to yourself.” Malachi hummed perfectly, with the ringing right after he finished his sentence. Lunch break over, and crisis averted.

“Ugh…hey, did you see a bird ‘round here, some spot…?” Tyler huffed as he found himself on the floor in a place that was very much not for bird watching. “Collared dove, shoulda been…”

Malachi grinned. “That’s your imagination, Sapphire.” Then stood up and walked away.

With a raise of his eyebrow, Tyler pieced it together…his boss was definitely mentally messing with everyone.

…But. It didn’t seem as bad as it did 5 minutes ago. “Eh, boss?”

Malachi turned back, “Yes?”

“Care to go bird-watchin’ with me sometime?”

Mystichite’s response was straight to the point, and hid a happiness he’d been waiting to truly let fly. “I’d love that…Tyler.”

@totally-tranced @fmajorenthusiast

[propranksterpropaganda]

@spacedustthethisuser No context, take my prose and figure this shit out.

Ask questions if you want. TW for intox and cigarettes (and a shitty evil boss).

OPEN TAGS BY THE WAY I WANT LOTS OF PEOPLE TO SEE THIS CAUSE HYPERFIXATION BE HYPERFIXATIONING

A communications device rang. The otherwise stagnant cubicle suddenly possessed the tiny light of an equally sized screen.

“Star?”

Pulling his head up from his desk, a young worker held one finger down on the answering button. “You don’t comm me unless something’s important.”

“Or, unless I’m getting you to stop your snoozing.” Cosmo Spacely huffed as he crossed his short arms. “Luckily, it’s both this time. Jetson wants you in his office.”

“He could’ve announced that on the system…” The man sat up, stretched out his back and gestured to the speaker up in the corner of the ceiling. Every cube had one.

Mr. Spacely’s gaze softened on the display, addressing his child with more kindness than he’d afforded even his past employees. “Starling. He mentioned those ore mines. Weren’t you—“

Star spit out his response: “I wanted to practice my carving. And they don’t give you any wood, on account of the closest trees being Jupitian!” He pressed the off button, then mumbled, “And it’s Starboy.”

The rectangular prism of George Jetson’s office was roomier and redder than any other place in the JetX building. Like a giant, disgusting hemorrhage. Starboy sat in an overly soft chair, hearing nothing but gears clanking and springs bouncing until…

“Starling P. Spacely. Punctual as always.” The half-muffled tone of someone who almost always had a cigar between his lips.

“Hey, Mr. J.” Star mumbled, not really giving his boss much thought. His eyes wandered to the cabinet behind Jetson’s chair. 6 chunks of crimsoleum ore, all almost perfectly ellipsoid, sat on velvet black cushions behind locked glass.

At least, there were 6 the last time Star was in here. Now, there were 5.

“The sample you took was in line to become the next battery for our most treasured robot.” Mr. Jetson began, sitting down.

“That old maid? What’s wrong with the one she’s got?” The young man leaned back in his seat, tracing the pristine white casing with one finger.

George pulled the cigar out of his mouth and let out a stream of maroon smoke with his next words: “Crimsoleum is not permanent. It’s more durable compared to elements of the past, but we still have to keep harvesting. Depleted ore can be corrosive enough to melt through solid steel. Do you want that happening to Pr1ckle? To any of our staff?”

“Staff” only ever referred to the machines, sentient or not. Like the Jetsons cared about what could’ve been a leftover part from the ISS over a flesh-and-blood mortal under their employment.

“No, I don’t want the cleaning lady to kick the exhaust tube, alright?” Star ran a hand through his deep blue hair. “But I’m not getting my quota filled.”

“If that isn’t the truth.” George whispered while adjusting his verdant, compound monocle.

The exhausted worker sat forward. “My request quota.” Pointing a finger where he probably shouldn’t have, he continued, “I asked for just a couple of logs two weeks ago. This company’s got its claws in every planet in the solar system, and you couldn’t pop over to Saturn and harvest so much as a ringed bonsai for my break times?”

Mr. Jetson seemed taken aback for a moment. As if it had been some time since someone talked to him that way. “You really need a bit of wood to carve?”

“Don’t blame me for Earth’s extinct trees. Blame the phytoplankton you people cultivated so you could saw ‘em all down.” The young Spacely wasn’t holding back.

JetX’s CEO turned in his chair and looked back at his now-incomplete collection of perfect samples. “Do you know how long it will take us to find another fitting mold for Pr1ckle?”

Long enough you can dust off all your little drones and have them sweep the floors. Starboy only thought this sentence. Why he refrained from speaking it aloud, he wasn’t sure. But Jetson turned with a glaring eye all the same.

What? How had he heard…

Starboy reached up. Electrodes on the side of his head, stuck there by a near-silent mechanism in the ceiling…and wirelessly connected to Jetson’s bionic optics. “Ugh.” He tore the sticker-like thing off his temple, only for his vision to become tinted in dark red.

George waited for the coughing to die down before loading up another puff of his cigarette. “Say these carvings of yours are really that imperative to the work ethic you possess.” He steepled his fingers together, sat up straighter, and exhaled.

The young man felt fuzzy. Was this what college-kids of the past experienced, breathing in nicotine and vape powder with their own drugs-on-a-stick? “I…I fucking need those carvings. They keep my hands steady, my head calm…my head…”

“…head hurts…” Starboy barely kept himself from whimpering upon the advent of the third cloud. It was like his eyes were heating up with tears, getting so bloodshot that he could barely see past the fog.

George let out a sigh, adding to the haze. “What do you think you’ll accomplish by trying to fight it? We’ve been over this time and time again…it feels better when you don’t struggle.” He stuck the cigar back in, unrelenting.

Star just grabbed at his own sides and shut his eyes, head weighed down by a mix of shame and fatigue. “You just want me to…make a deaaal with you…” His words.

Holding back a smile was usually easy for Mr. Jetson, but not today. “Slurring? How…unprofessional.”

Star looked back up just in time for the fifth and final puff to do him in. Crimsoleum coated his lungs and might as well have moved his lips for him. Slumping down into the seat, he just weakly replied, “I want…to…carve…”

Mr. Jetson leaned in, watching the red glow brighten in Starling Spacely’s eyes. He looked like he’d just seen Heaven itself. Not that Jetson believed in any gods. That was ancient practice.

“The one you made from the sample. Still got it?”

The implied command was easy enough for a toddler to pick up on. Star plucked a small statue out of his pocket, colored with black and red streaks and shaped like a bear curled halfway in the fetal position. “Ursa…my favorite constellations…” he chuckled, seconds before he just sort of…dropped.

Mr. Jetson took the carving with an examining gaze, then stood to his feet. After unlocking the window with a jet-black key, he placed the ursine shape where the previous oval had been stored. “A theft for a theft. Good work, eh, Spacely?”

Starboy could only see his boss. Not the man who’d ruined his family’s life, or the creep who kept drugging him, or the mogul who swamped him with work and labor every other second for hours a day…

…just. His boss.

“Let’s do a deal. I’ll get you a whole tree’s worth of wood, if you stop whining and let me have my way.” Like an ominous chant, the words cut through all the blurry lines in Star’s head, and he sank into a deep and peaceful slumber.

The last thing he felt was Jetson’s cold, metal hand on his forehead, pushing him further down into the blood-colored abyss. What his boss did with him…was none of a lowly employee’s concern…

[propranksterpropaganda]

And what if I gave everyone a criminally insane homosexual and Some Guy With The Magic(TM) talking to each other for the first time

With no context

“You. I wondered when we would speak.”

“Hello, Malachi. I’m very sorry…”

“…no. Don’t you dare try to apologize. I want answers…”

“Answers? For what, exactly…there are many things that could mean…”

“…what do you mean? You set—your business, your tabloid set a hypnotic trap at its doors! And that trap hurt my friend!”

“Friend? Really?”

“Yes. My friend…”

“That’s just lovely, isn’t it…”

“Your voice. I recognize that type of voice, and if you think it’s going to get me, I can assure you that you have another thing coming…”

“Do I, now?”

“…Agh! NO! Listen, I figured I’d meet someone like…like…”

“Like…You.”

“SHUT UP! You are a liar, and a cheat, and I hope I never learn your name…”

“Archer. Archer Price. Such a pleasure.”

The original series of mine that this is from is on AO3, BTW. The conversation is from the soon-to-be-released Episode 6.