AND THATS THE LAST PART OF THE COMIC WAHAJAJJAHJAHA
also OooOOoOoooOo lore stuff ooOoOOOooooO wizard doin mysterious thing OoOOOoOooOoo
Ent_9 and [Redacted]-Chan are both entities created by The DayDreamer! to help them with whatever they needed, usually creating scenarios for the host to daydream with. Despite having their own emotions and somewhat free will, these entities do not have a saying on what dreamer does with them nor the scenarios, plus they are deliberately made to help dreamer no matter what, so there is nothing they can really do except help eachother to feel better.
Thats a lil lore info ;P
BUT YEA THATS THE END OF THE COMIC RAHH IM NOT FINISH IT BLEHHHHH
ok now a lil explanation as to why im not finishing this:
1) too lame idk and its kinds old
2) the actual reason its because i have 2 ideas on how to finish the comic, the thing is that dreamers acts either way out of character or its in character but i dont have a conclusive comic and that would extend it too much [and it would not be silly anymore]
yea thats kinda it, im not giving more lore stuff thats for later ;)
thamki u 4 reading my shitty comic :D
"My teacher didn't tell me WHY the curtains are blue so I always assume it's for no reason" skill issue
"But what if the author just liked blue curtains" you can't do that every time curtains are onscreen man. How are you gonna be able to tell the difference between curtains that mean something and curtains that don't if you refuse to engage in the discussion. Because what you're saying is that curtains, and by extension every similar bit of subtext and detail and mood, never mean anything. In 2040 all novels will take place in empty white rooms
It's the literature analysis version of when people don't want to say anything wrong so they don't say anything. Are you scared your connection with the text will get a big red F written on it? Are you scared the author is gonna come yell at you
Summary: Guillermo finally, finally gets turned into a vampire, but it doesn't really go the way he expected. Now that he's a vampire everyone is treating him differently, but not in a good way. Everyone seems tense and angry, and Nandor will barely look at him. He's not sure what he did wrong, or if he's the one who did something wrong.
What does everyone else know that he doesn't?
--
Nandor glances at the camera briefly, and then away. His lips are pressed tightly together, his entire body tensed up, ready to lash out or take a blow or run or all three at once. He pulls on a pair of gloves, his movements jerky and abrupt.
"Guillermo, come here!" he calls.
Nandor tugs at the edges of the gloves, flexing his fingers. He pulls himself up, drawing his shoulders back and sticking out his chin, expression imperious and stern to the point of being cold.
A moment passes, with no sign of his familiar.
"Guillermo!" he bellows.
Guillermo arrives a few seconds later, slightly flushed and out of breath, still wearing the bright yellow rubber gloves he wears when he is cleaning.
"Sorry," he says, "I was on the other side of the house."
His eyes flick over the room, and he grows wary. Nandor's hands tighten into fists at his sides.
"Is...everything okay?" Guillermo asks.
"It is fine," Nandor says. His voice is the same as his expression, stern and cold. "Come over here please." Nandor gestures to spot directly in front of him. The camera shifts to the other side of the coffin.
"What's going on?" Guillermo asks, warily, as he joins his master.
"I have decided to make you a vampire."
Guillermo's whole face lights up in joyful disbelief, uncertainty forgotten entirely. Nandor's expression doesn't change, but he--somehow--manages to tense up further.
"Really?"
"Yes. Now."
"Now--Like, right now, right now--?"
Nandor puts one hand on Guillermo's left shoulder. The other goes on the top of Guillermo's head and tilts it to the side. Guillermo's eyes go wide; he fumbles with the rubber gloves.
"Wait, let me--"
"Hold still," Nandor orders, and bites him.
Whatever Guillermo was going to say cuts off short with a little hiccup. His hands, still in the yellow gloves, rise up, automatically grabbing onto Nandor for balance. Nandor lets out a noise of irritation and shoves them away. Nandor's eyes are squeezed tightly shut, but Guillermo's eyes are wide--awed or stunned, it is difficult to say. He blinks hard a few times, tries to swallow, and winces. Nandor lets out another irritated noise.
"Sorry," Guillermo manages.
Nandor releases Guillermo with hands and fangs at the same time, so suddenly the man wobbles slightly.
"I--" Guillermo begins, but stops when Nandor shoves an ornately decorated chalice at him.
"Drink."
Guillermo finally manages to yank the gloves off, tossing them aside. He takes the cup reverently in both hands, staring at is as if it's the holy grail--and in a way, it is. He looks up at Nandor, eyes over-bright.
"Thank--"
"Drink. If you wait too long, it doesn't count and we have to do it all over again."
Guillermo lifts the goblet to his lips. Nandor watches him, heedless of the blood smeared around his own mouth, his expression unreadable, though there is a hungry light in his eyes. Guillermo empties the chalice without pause, taking long gulps and tilting his head back as he catches the last dregs of the grizzly contents.
He lowers the cup, and then lowers his head, and opens his eyes. They flash silver in the light for a moment before returning to their normal brown. He is breathing hard, and the cup trembles in his hands. A smile spreads over his face, so wide and so bright. Nandor looks away.
"I can, I can feel it," he says. "Master, I--"
"I am not your master anymore," Nandor says, tersely. "You will call me by my name."
"Nandor," Guillermo says, as if tasting the word in his mouth. He doesn't seem to notice that the vampire flinches at the sound. "Thank y--"
"Stay near a bed, or a chair," Nandor interrupts once more, not looking at Guillermo as he takes the chalice from his unresisting hands. "So that you do not fall over when you start to die. It is very unpleasant."
Without another word, he sweeps out of the room.
The room seems suddenly very large and empty with just Guillermo in it. He raises a hand and absentmindedly wipes the blood from the corners of his lips. His gaze catches the camera, and he gives the crew a confused shrug.
--
"I'm happy. Of course I feel happy, my lifelong dream has literally come true." Guillermo smiles, but it is a little weak at the edges, his joy slightly stifled. "It just wasn't really what I expected. I think it's just that it was so sudden, and then it was over so fast, so I haven't really had time to process." He nods, as if reassuring someone. "Yeah.That's probably it."
He picks at his sweater. Adjusts his glasses. Scratches at the dried blood on his neck.
"Plus I'm dying, and it's way more unpleasant than I was expecting."
--
Nandor has relocated to the library, the door firmly shut. The chalice sits ignored on a low table. Nandor's shoulders are hunched, his expression somewhat guilty.
"I do not want to talk right now," he mutters at the camera, dabbing at his face with a handkerchief. The fabric is red, and the blood has dried a little, and he is having a hard time telling whether or not he's gotten it all off.
"Nandor, have you seen Nadja?" Laszlo calls, opening the door. "She was--"
Nandor looks up, startled, and then hurriedly turns away. Laszlo's eyes dart from Nandor to the cup and back.
In a strained, soft voice, Laszlo says "Would've thought you'd have learned your lesson by now."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Nandor says, not turning around.
"You know damn well what I'm talking about," Laszlo says, in that same voice. "You said--"
"I know what I said!"
"--and I quote!" Laszlo thunders, voice suddenly very loud, "'I will never. Make. This mistake. Again'!"
"I know what I said!" Nandor snarls. "It is none of your fucking business!"
Laszlo strides across the room and jabs Nandor in the chest.
"It damn well is my business, you tit. You think I enjoy watching you make an idiot of yourself every hundred years?"
"You think I care what you enjoy?"
"You can't keep doing this to yourself!"
"What the hell are you two shouting about?" Nadja demands, appearing in the doorway.
Laszlo snatches up the chalice, Nandor half a second too slow to stop him, and brandishes it like evidence at a murder trial.
Nadja shuts the door very carefully behind her.
"Last time wasn't bad enough?" she asks. Though her words are harsh, her tone is almost gentle.
"It's already done," Nandor snaps. "I am not going to stand here and get yelled at more about this. It is my decision to make, and I made it!"
"I'll just go put the word out you're looking for a new familiar then, shall I?" Laszlo says, acidly. "Single vampire seeks good human, preferably one not so endearing--"
"Laszlo!" Nadja snaps, then raises her hands and drops them despairingly. "Alright, let's hear it. Tell us how this time will be any different."
Nandor bares his fangs at them.
"I do not need to explain anything to you," he says, bitterly. Nadja lets out a loud sigh of exasperation.
"Which means you don't know, because you didn't think it through, again--"
Somewhere in the house, Guillermo throws up, and the sound makes it to the room.
"Shit," Nandor mutters. He rushes out of the room, pointedly not looking at either of his housemates. Nadja opens her mouth, but gives up. She and Laszlo give each other despairing looks. For a moment, they do nothing.
Finally, Laszlo says "...where were you?"
"I was up in the attic. Where were you?"
"In the basement."
"Next time we should specify what 'let's fuck at the end of the house' means."
"Agreed."
--
Nandor raps his knuckles frantically against the bathroom door.
"Guillermo?"
"I'm okay," is the weary response. "Just a sec."
The toilet flushes. The sink runs. The vaguely musical sound of gargling, then spitting.
At last the door opens.
Guillermo does not look good. He is ashen and trembling, with deep bags already ringing his bleary eyes.
"I'm okay," he says again. It is even less believable than last time.
"What happened?" Nandor asks, sharply.
"Oh, I uh. Had a bit of a moment," Guillermo says, with a sheepish grin, and taps the side of his head. "I figured I was dizzy because of the blood loss, so I should eat something. I didn't realize the whole 'can't eat or drink' thing kicks in that fast."
Nandor frowns.
"You should be more careful," he says, admonishingly.
"Yeah, lesson learned," Guillermo agrees. "Hey, do you want to play chess, or something? I'm getting kind of psyched out, just sitting around waiting to die."
Nandor looks very much like he wants to refuse, but eventually says "Fine."
Guillermo's smile gets a little tight at that, but his voice is cheerful as he says "Great. I'll get the board set up."
--
"Maybe...maybe we should play checkers instead," Guillermo says, weakly. He has his head braced in both hands, head drooping ever closer to the table. "How long does the dying part last?"
"Your heart sounds very weak," Nandor says, stiffly. "I do not think you will last the night."
"Oh, good. Cause I'm really ready for this part to be over."
Nandor stands abruptly. Guillermo blinks up at his former master. It takes a few seconds for his eyelids to close, and a few more for them to open.
"Come," Nandor says, taking Guillermo's arm and pulling him to his feet. "You should lie down."
"Okay," Guillermo says, and allows himself to be led to his little room. He collapses onto his bed with a heavy groan, throwing an arm over his eyes. "It's so bright in here."
Nandor hurriedly turns the light off. The sudden change makes Guillermo look up. He smiles.
"Thanks."
Nandor opens his mouth to say something, and then doesn't. He starts to reach out and changes his mind halfway, turning the motion into an awkward wave.
"Bye," he says, and backs away.
"Can you stay?" Guillermo's voice is weak and quiet but it freezes Nandor in his tracks all the same. "I don't...I don't really want to die alone." Guillermo says it with a grin, but it's a shaky, pallid thing that doesn't hide his nervousness.
Nandor sits stiffly on the edge of the bed, resting his hands on either side of himself, fingers digging into the mattress. Awkward silence sinks over them.
"Ma--Nandor. Thank you," Guillermo says, suddenly. Nandor grimaces, but with his back to Guillermo his discomfort is unseen. "Really. I...Everything you've done for me--"
"Just rest, Guillermo."
Guillermo tentatively slides his hand across the bed to where Nandor's is resting on the mattress. As soon as their fingers brush, Nandor hurriedly puts his hands on his knees, out of reach. Hurt lingers on Guillermo's face, but quickly his expression goes slack as his breathing becomes more and more ragged.
"See you on the other side, I guess," Guillermo says, once more trying for humor. Something in Nandor seems to break, and at last he turns to look at Guillermo. He puts his hand on his familiar's shoulder and squeezes gently. His expression is reassuring, almost tender.
"You are going to make a very good vampire, Guillermo."
Guillermo's lips twitch into an almost-smile. His eyes slide shut, and he lets out a sudden heavy sigh.
He does not breathe in again.
Nandor watches him for a while, hand still on his shoulder. Then he turns away, curls in on himself, buries his hands in his hair. The camera lingers on the sight, and then goes dark.
Obi-Wan weaved sideways, barely dodging a swipe of Anakin’s lightsaber, deadly heat skittering just past his elbow. The Force shuddered and screamed in his mind, leaving him raw and broken.
The Republic was gone, the Jedi were gone, and democracy had fallen, only to see darkness prevail. And that was hardly the worst of it, now that Obi-Wan saw the truth in front of him.
In the burning light of Mustafar’s fiery air, Anakin’s eyes burned a scorching yellow.
It was the one true indication of a Jedi fallen from the Light.
With an angry roar, Anakin’s strikes grew faster, and Obi-Wan forced himself to keep up, backing them out of the reactor into the open area of Mustafar’s landscape.
Around them, Mustafar was burning—and so was Anakin.
There was nothing familiar about Anakin’s Force presence—none of the Light that Obi-Wan remembered from when he first met him, none of his compassion, righteousness, or love.
All of that had been replaced by a burning hatred—towards him.
Oh, Anakin, what have I done?
They stood across from each other, soaring across the lava rivers, sky and world burning and falling around them; as the Republic had fallen hours ago.
A part of Obi-Wan wondered if there was still time to save Anakin. Maybe there was still hope. Maybe—just maybe—Anakin was still in there, somewhere, and Obi-Wan just had to find him.
It wouldn’t be the first time that Anakin had gotten lost.
Maybe—
Anakin roared, jumping towards Obi-Wan, lightsaber moving in a bright blue blur. Obi-Wan met each of his strikes evenly, though his arms were beginning to tremble from the effort of pushing back.
Anakin was a lot stronger than him, after all, but there was still one thing that Obi-Wan definitively had over Anakin, especially now.
Keep your concentration in the here and now, Obi-Wan.
Qui-Gon’s voice, so painfully distant and far away; yet—
I will do as I must.
There was little choice at this point.
And so, Obi-Wan jumped.
Anakin followed, and Obi-Wan swung his lightsaber in a deadly blue arc, watching with burning eyes as Anakin tumbled to the ground with pained shout and rolled downwards to the lava bank.
The Force screamed, and Obi-Wan screamed along with it, unable to contain the grief that clawed its way up his throat.
“You were the Chosen One!” he shouted. The tears were burning out of his eyelids, streaming down his cheeks, but Obi-Wan couldn’t bring himself to wipe them. “It was said that you would destroy the Sith, not join them…bring balance to the Force, not leave it in darkness!”
Around him, Mustafar roared, and the darkness all around him swelled in a horrifying symphony, crushing and painful all at once.
He could barely handle it any longer.
Anakin’s eyes flicked upwards, an angry, vengeful yellow gaze that pierced at Obi-Wan’s heart.
“I hate you!” Anakin roared, and the Force echoed his words, pulsating against Obi-Wan’s shields. Anakin struggled to use his remaining arm—the only limb he had left, Obi-Wan was now realizing—to climb up, but it wouldn’t be enough.
Anakin would not be able to climb up because of him.
Anakin had turned to the Dark because of him.
And now…
Anakin would die because of him.
“You were my brother, Anakin,” Obi-Wan exclaimed, throat and heart protesting. “I loved you.”
Anakin burned.
The sight of it was horrifying to watch—seeing the fire catch at the bottom of the stumps at his legs before it quickly rose up and engulfed his body. Anakin screamed and roared in agony, and Obi-Wan felt it reverberate in his bones.
All of his instincts told him to save his Padawan, but…
Obi-Wan blinked, and he saw the bodies of the fallen Jedi—Padawans, Knights, and younglings alike—followed by Anakin kneeling in front of Darth Sidious, and the Force itself steeped into darkness.
The screams continued. Obi-Wan forced himself to move, though his feet felt numb, nearly frozen to the spot. He knelt down and picked up Anakin’s lightsaber.
He’s spent his whole life pretending. Pretending being alone didn’t upset him, pretending his mother and sister hadn’t left, pretending his father wasn’t an angry alcoholic.
Pretending he didn’t love Betty Cooper.
Pretending he didn’t love Betty Cooper when the only love he’s ever known is loving her.
