silph_co | if we can call them friends then we can call them on their telephones

if we can call them friends then we can call them on their telephones

Who: Steven Durante + the other Rockets
Where: Various places in Goldenrod City + over poke-Skype
When: Late March/Early April
Summary: Steven has a few emotional conversations with his co-workers
Rating: PG-13, with the inevitable likeliness of some threads going up to R in terms of language and conversational subjects. ~~Anything too wicked goes to an inbox.~~

[This is a catchall post for various inter-Rocket threads with Steven taking place at the end of March/first half of April, with the starters for those threads in their own comments inside.]

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"Fuck," Dirk breathes, with something close to real physical pain. He closes his eyes. The subject of narrative, of storytelling and the weekend comes as a hard punch to the gut--not because of the powers themselves, but what comes attendant to them.

"I should have known--I should have put it together after that weekend."

He hates how obvious it is. How clear it would have been if he'd been paying attention. He's a pathetic, deplorable idiot not to have seen it. Abject piece of shit.

"It was right there--right in fucking front of me. No. Not even that. I chalked it up to narrative high and the void it left, but that wasn't it. Did I change after? Was I--nevermind. You wouldn't know. It doesn't matter, anyway." A pause.

"I know I said don't fucking trust me, and I mean it. I'm not all here."

Dirk's expression doesn't change, even as he swerves hard back to Steven's intended point, like what he was just saying didn't happen.

"But on that weekend? There's basically nothing I can't do, or know, except how to fucking leave. John still owes me a favour, but we tested him out and he can't leave either--that doesn't mean anything to you, but trust me when I say there's some real hinky shit going on."

"Right," Steven says quietly. "The whole being a god thing. I figure whatever the space llama god is doing to us to render us human just-- stops for whatever reason then. Maybe it needs to take a three-day nap? Whatever it is..." He shakes his head. "Well. Anyway. I'll be able to do some stealth things and a lot of dreamwalking. I think Tyler should be able to do his tale crafting shit then. And Lydia... well, she's a goddamn lich. She can do a lot. Combine that with your god shit..." He shrugs. "That's why I wanted us to have a contingency plan for whenever it happens."

"About that." Dirk feels--physically, mentally, metaphysically, narratively, more tired, more weighted down than he has in... a long, long time.

"I should probably warn him, and you, that the 'story' is part of the problem. I've been reliably informed I sound 'four or five magnitudes more insane than I usually do' if I explain in any detail how I know. It's there, I've got as much control over it as I ever do, but it's not connected to anything. The whole story just isn't fucking there. It's a hundred disconnected stories that merge when they interact and then divide again. And I don't know if it's just that weekend, but I don't think it is."

"No, no, that makes perfect sense," Steven says. "I mean, we're all from different stories. We might not know what those stories are, like you do, but that doesn't mean we're not. God, I just realized I told Armin about this and not you, because I was too busy being pissy at your for your dumbass opinions about sex and it took me a couple days to dredge to concept up from the depths of my memory, but you've never heard of World As Myth, have you?

"It's, shit, a Heinlein thing. Basically the idea is that the act of creating a story creates a world as well--that that's how worlds are created. Which implies that every world is just a story in someone else's world. We just might not be the main characters. And, you know, I think this place pretty well serves as evidence in favor of World as Myth."

"Whether or not that's how worlds are created is an open debate, and one I'd be very interested in having, but one we'll table for later. Along with your intense and inexplicable vendetta against where I'm putting my dick and how, apparently?"

He can't wait to hear the 'logic' behind that one.

"There's obviously some correlation between narrative existence and worlds, just on a bare-minimum level. Story → world. I'm spitballing a hypothesis here, the testing of which will have to wait until I'm back in control... but my best guess is that each character is carrying a bit of their world through their narrative presence, the relevance of which lingers around them like a rank fart, mingling with the others' in a concentrated miasma of gaseous anal emissions, orchestrated by a deeply disturbed fetishist, possibly some kind of genuine sadist. Under this hypothesis, the interactions between individual relevant characters, introduced from outside for this explicit purpose, make up and sustain this world's 'story.' Thus making us, collectively, a kind of Frankenstein's monster--while the mind or minds behind the monstrous creation we convey with our existence is both unknown and at large."

Edited 2020-04-14 02:47 (UTC)

"Not where you're putting your dick," Steven clarifies. "I don't actually care how many plush rumps you've soiled. Remember how you insulted my boyfriend's sexual tastes?"

Steven remembers.

He shakes his head and goes on. "But yeah, no, that does seem reasonable. Altogether reasonable. I wonder... do you think this is some sort of MUD or MUSH? I know there's some of them that let you play other people's characters."

Dirk does not remember that, no. He remembers having the impromptu conversation about Steven and Jack's sex life--and he remembers Steven's flagrant enjoyment of the subject, which was noted at the time and has since been filed away mentally as another specific item on his short but growing inventory of Steven's specific paraphilias. But he has zero recollection of ever being stupid enough to insult Jack in the man's own mansion.

But between Dirk's current frame of mind and his own (no doubt well-intended) suggestion, Steven inadvertently spares himself a swerve into a topic much more salacious but somewhat less immediately salient.

"You're suggesting that anyone else but me is pulling my strings."

There's anger and then there's loathing--and then there's the tone of his voice, sharper than even the blades of certain well-known swords whose names could be listed here.

Steven winces. That tone of voice is... not good. Not at all. "I mean... didn't Andrew Hussie at some point? Even if you took control of the narrative?"

"You ever hear of death of the author?"

Steven frowns. "As a metaphor, sure. I'm guessing you mean something more than that."

Steven has him temporarily distracted, but that sudden, intense reactionary anger is neither averted nor abated.

"Not even close. First of all--no, what? How did you even get that? You can use both to interpret a work, I guess? No, death of the author isn't a fucking metaphor. It's a form of literary criticism. In this case, it's also literal. That's point two. Hussie dies within the body of his own work after an extended sequence involving the precise limits and scope of his interference in the story. I won't pretend I was uninvolved, but not--"

He doesn't quite pause, making a split second decision about his choice of words--

"--singularly. Point three, we bring back point one--the intent of the author? Meaningless. Done. Abandoned. The canon is dead. Long live the canon."

"I know what it is in literary criticism, Dirk," Steven says, rubbing his brow in frustration. "I misspoke when I called it a metaphor, but I did take English classes beyond freshman comp, even if that's not what I got my degree in. It's when you separate a work from its creator to analyze it. And yeah, no, I'm not surprised that an avatar of Andrew Hussie died in story--that's the kind of shit he'd do."

There. Might be a small, dark Pokemon wiggling out of Steven's coat pocket just now, whether or not Dirk notices it. Shuppet like people whose brains are full of garbage, bad thoughts, and anger... and currently Steven's brain is not the biggest trashfire in the room.

Distracted as he is, Dirk is paying an inadequate amount of attention to his surroundings in general--he still hasn't actually put down the plate he's holding, and for no better reason than he's forgotten he was holding it. So Steven's questionably-sourced pocket ghost? Whatever it's up to, it's so far evaded his notice.

Besides, the frames Dirk wears--sick as fuck though their look may be--are not exactly advantageously tinted for the detection of shadowy shapes.

"And now he has no more control over me than you did, reading it."

It is by no means questionably sourced. It happens to be the child of two of his Pokemon. And as for what he's up to...

Well. Dirk will soon feel some very affectionate nuzzling at the side of his head, even as Steven suddenly coughs. Or, well, disguises a laugh as a cough.

"I think someone likes you," he says. "And yes. Fine. You've liberated yourself. The author is now dead in all capacities."

The fabric... sensation is not so much soft as it is silky to the point of negation, a texture in absentia. The ghost of a fleece past, if you want to be tacky and obvious about it.

And Dirk goes very, very still.

"Uh."

Wow.

Damn.

This isn't fucking uncomfortable or nothing. No specific tactile resemblance to certain materials with a distinct conditioned physiological response.

Good fucking thing he knows how to deal with that. Surreptitiously. Holy fuck.

"You gonna get that, or am I expected to do both that and remind you that canon isn't dead myself?"

He feels like he's about to absolutely fucking lose it, with "it" in this case meaning either his sanity or his extremely frayed, bare-wire patience for what is already testing the former.

Clench a certain group of muscles. Release. Redirect the blood flow. Act fucking normal.

Oh Dirk. Steven probably shouldn't be so amused by your plight, but there's that well-concealed sadistic streak rearing its shitty head again.

He stands up. Moves closer to Dirk's head. Holds out his own hands.

"Hey, kiddo, I know you want to love on him, I do, but he's not me and he's not Lydia. Not everyone likes to be cuddled, remember?"

He glances at Dirk. "Sorry," he says, not sounding particularly sorry. "That's Miasma and Casper's kid. The other two were Gastlies, but this one takes after their dad. Shuppets are... really affectionate, depending on the person. This little guy has been following me around pretty much since they were hatched—they like to hide in my pocket—you're one of very few people I've seen them leave me for. You sure you aren't in the market for a new Ghost?"

The little shuppet, unfortunately, really doesn't seem to want to leave their new best friend. This garbage brain is theirs.

"Do I have a choice." It's as much a growl as it is a groan. Try not to read too much into the meaning of that groan--any interpretation comes with a shade of agony anyway.

Steven, feeling a little cocky, gives Dirk a brief pat on his shoulder.

"Honestly? I don't think they're going to leave. But, uh, I've noticed Casper's always most affectionate when my brain feels like it's caught on fire, so maybe... maybe his kid will be good for you to have around." He shrugs. "Why don't I leave you two to bond? I mean, now that I know you're more or less going to be okay and you managed to eat most of supper."

He'll just-- start walking towards the door now.

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if we can call them friends then we can call them on their telephones

Also I missed a strikethrough last tag!! I'm really batting 100 over here

I MEAN I TYPED ' PULL OF' INSTEAD OF 'PULL OFF'

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steven never did ljrp or dwrp so at least he can't suggest those... MUDs/MUCKs/MUSHes however...

[Dirk Hated That]

Re: [Dirk Hated That]

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cw speaking of smuppets I GUESS

THERE'S ONLY A ONE LETTER DIFFERENCE

GOD IT'S TRUE

SMUPPET THE SHUPPET?