Disaster Risk

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TT: I’m sorry.
TT: It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.
TT: He wasn’t supposed to turn into fucking Hal 9000 with a Hunter Zolomon complex.
TT: He’s me.
TT: I’m not supposed to cut my friends’ legs out from under them with some bullshit guise of making them better and stronger.
TT: I know I’ve pulled some extreme tests of will before but,
TT: Jesus christ.

In which the AR decides to take things into his own digital hands.

Fluff: +

Angst: +++++

Smut: +

Overall Rating: +++

Read it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/490054

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Afterwards

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You end up right in the middle of the crowd with Fieri’s head in a garbage bag under your arm and no one even notices. The funeral is as much of a disaster as anything else the Condesce has sanctioned, and the new, far less capable Mirthful Executives stutter and blanch when it’s revealed that Fieri’s missing a rather vital part of his anatomy.

The Batterwitch’s scream echoes off of the buildings. You take it as your cue to leave.

Apocalyptic and action-packed.

Fluff: ++

Angst: ++++

Smut: ++

Overall Rating: ++++

Read it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/640600

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Father of the Smiling God/Father of the Screaming God

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Gamzee served as Lil Cal’s hands, of course, even tending to the children and raising them into gods.   Here, though, his mind was clearest.  He knew this girl, and it was his choice to smile at her, gentle, gentle and proud.  She was the Smiling Messiah, the Angel of Impossible Life, the Angel of Unspoken Possibilities – the Angel of Miracles.  She was, or else none of this meant anything.

None of this meant anything but more blasphemous lies, heaped sour and coolkid-slick on the stew of all Gamzee had believed for so long and let fall out through him, fall through the staring holes sopor slime had left in his brain.

There were stories about this child in his sacred doctrines, Gamzee told himself.  She was the one who walked among mortals, wearing skins like theirs for reasons only she could know, befriending them and taking them along to paradise.  She was the one whose magician-clowns performed the cleverest tricks – hers was the Hall of Illusions, punishing the faithless and the cruel.  Her humor was wicked slick and merciless.   She would coat her words in her brother’s blood, just like he would soak his own words in hers.

What sort of messiahs wouldn’t know how to have a good laugh?

Original and beautiful.

Fluff: +

Angst: +++

Smut: +

Overall Rating: ++++

Read it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4583772

Dress Rehearsal Rag

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The Conquerors began to punish the whole planet for their actions, destroying the eastern swamps and laying waste to the breeding grounds. The boy and girl, now a man and a woman, could no longer stand to see their world destroyed and they came forward, offering their lives to spare their home. Cra does not cry when they execute the man, but he does weep a little when the Storyteller sings the woman’s mourning song. He’s not the only one, and more eyes are wet than dry when the last notes fade.

Just as they are about to execute the woman, the Gods rouse themselves from their cesspit and let loose the Endless Croak. The Conquerors were laid low and they bled out as the sound echoed through the universe, punishing them for their wickedness. Cra looks up at the statues of the Conquerors and their strange ‘hair’ and ‘horns’, and he tries to imagine how they must have bled, every colour of the rainbow pouring from their veins. The story ends with the woman taking the body of the man and seizing hold of a Conquerors ship, sailing away into the darkness of space to search for a way to retrieve him from death. Everyone applauds, including an excited Cra, his grief over the woman’s song quickly forgotten.

On the way home, sitting on his father’s shoulders, Cra makes up his mind, “One day, I’ll travel to another world.”

“You’ll never go anywhere. All the ships are long dead, and no one knows how to fix them,” Cra’s father says. Later, when Cra is a man, he will reflect on these words and conclude that this was the first sign that his father was an awful one, “Dream about something real.”

Some authors consider themselves unlucky enough to have one fandom. Imagine their dread if they knew it was possible to have several fandoms for one work.

To my knowledge, Homestuck is unique in that, due to its 55 or so primary and secondary characters, it has several niche fandoms, the largest of which is for the first Intermission. The Intermission appears in the webcomic with a sudden change in color scheme, a modified drawing style, a completely new cast of characters, and seemingly no connection to the story preceding it. A couple hundred pages later, it ends as suddenly and without explanation as it began. It is only much later in the storyline that the reader is provided with a reason for this madness. But even when the Intermission was finally linked to the main canon, it was too late: with its completely different aesthetics and style, and by being so separate for so long, it had essentially become its own miniature canon and gained its own miniature fandom. Today, Intermission fanfictions are frequently listed under both the Homestuck fandom and the Intermission-fandom. Both in canon and in the niche fandom, the characters in the Intermission rarely interact with the other characters in Homestuck, and when they do, it is with the same excitement as crossovers. Such is the gap between the Intermission and the rest of Homestuck that the characters in the Intermission are more frequently written alongside characters in an entirely different story than alongside their Homestuck counterparts – but we’ll get to that with a later fanfiction.

This particular Homestuck/Intermission fanfiction covers a character that gets approximately 260 words in the over-a-million-word webcomic, 3 or 4 scenes, is dead before the Intermission begins, and dies a couple more times during it. Such is the way Homestuck goes.

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Collection: Consensus on Bro Strider

This feels like writing an obituary.

I must confess, that Homestuck is my favorite canon. I discovered it as most do; crawling through the depths of the Internet, stumbling upon technicolor children, candy corn horns and fractured houses, curious. Too curious for our own good, really. Homestuck doesn’t advertise itself. It’s an invasive work, traveling on the lips and keyboards of Internet natives, a transcendent singularity. It has always been something odd, something special.

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