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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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

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?