005 × Call Us The Bad Guys, Damn It

Delicate steps bound to the ground
But the view rotates through the gaps
Now something bound to the ceiling
arms and feet attached to the world itself
As if it is the world, to begin with
No mouth
No eyes
No will
No motivation
Yet it called out one

Entertainment

And that was all
And yet it spoke
Splitting his head and body

Rip

Crack

Split

Figures emerge from the entity
As if they were stuck together
From the beginning
And then

Huh, how long has it been...?
I ask Trogun, he replies
A hundred eons,
I suppose

And that's how the bitch died,
Malwari exclaims
As the flashback concludes
And 'bout the plan, Fay~
She asks
...fuck no
You people are not ripping my limbs off here
Just so I can go screw the little town up for who knows why!
Faytle replies in anger

Entertainment,
Trogun talks as he walks out of the shadows
You... agreed to us and yourself
You too held resent and you shal—
Faytle cuts Trogun off to protest
Alright, first of all stop talking like a Soulslike boss
And second— no, that's it, I'm not dealing with them and...

Take a taste of your own medicine,
Trogun talks as he grabs me by the neck, his cold hands impaling
Me as I breathe, and then I'm off—
All the... everything, really, piling up in my head
From the ages I've— no, we've— been hung to the ceiling of our own bodies
And I ignore everything
Bliss, being what I feel

Cya later, bitch!
And Malwari ruins the mood
I fall down

like a wingless, spineless, heartless, formless, less
Angel

The air becomes hotter as I reach high velocity
And then

Thud

It's over

And then somewhere
In a certain town

A fiery figure chants in excitement
Bochie, bochie, bochie!
You done preparin'? 'Cause I sure as hell am!
Everyone's waiting and...
Bochie? You— wait, where is...

The view shifts

Alright, she won't even know
L-Like, uhhh she can handle it right
I-I-I can't 'cause, ummm, I'm...
What am I even talking about, I can't come up with a song, sure
But then I leave Dhol hanging solo
Just 'cause I'm— I'm
I-I just...

I'm out of inspiration
And I'm outta motivation
But, come on, Bochie!
You got thi—

Babbling and rambling
In a writer's block of her song
For the festival
I stammeringly convince myself
Or try to, at least
My eyes drift to a certain sound
In the distance
Taking careful steps
One after another
Knowing it might be a...
Oh, it's—

Hey, stranger I don't know,
You okay?
Reaching my hand out, I exclaim
Then slowly the person opens their eyes
Who are you...?
Ar— am I dead?
The person muses
They don't seem in the best condition
I might just have to— I pick them up
Over my shoulder

Maybe Miss Creatia can do something
He doesn't look like Sir Creator's artstyle either, though

I wonder

Ummm, you! What's yo' name?
I try to talk, the guilt of the earlier moments still lingering
I should go and apologis—
Faytle, that's the name,
The person replies
T-That's lovely
Almost there at
Doodlevile

Yet still, suspicion washes over my face
And I can't help but ask
Faytle, was it?
I've been wondering
Something

He gives me a gesture to continue

Who is your creator?
You don't look like how
Either Miss Creatia
Or Sir Creator
Would draw their characters
And I get myself to say it
I almost don't notice, but—
His gaze sharpens, a wide grin forms
On his face

As he talks menacingly
Taking himself off my shoulder
Taking hold of my arm
He goes
Tell me
something,
Can eternal torture
Justify the want to cause
Eternal suffering...?
His words pierce my ears
The sound of water slowly shifting, dripping, binding
And now, someone takes contro—

No, I take control

Faytle, in his newly acquired vessel,
Takes steady steps
A plan forming on the base
Of Bochie's memories
Every step echoing with the hum
of something lost,
And found again in pain
The air around him ripples faintly,
Like reality itself is hesitant to hold him.
Memories not his flicker behind his eyes—
The laughter of festivals,
The smell of burnt sugar and ink.
He feels it, that spark of joy he never owned,
And hates it.

I got it,
I'll make them suffer,
He says, approaching the stage of the festival
Entering through the back door, flipping through curtains
And going through mazes of fabric and sound
The faint echoes of laughter leak through the walls,
Notes of music, unfinished, trembling like a dying light.
Every step they takes feels heavier, more deliberate,
Like he's walking through the veins of a dream too real to wake from.

Bochie?
The fiery figure runs to Bochie
Where did ya' go?
I searched all of Doodlevile!
Why leave me?
Everyone's waiting for us
For you...

Bochie turns to the door of the front stage
And in an almost robotic voice calls out
I can handle this, Dholl
She flips open the door
As the cheering of the crowd of creations
Floods the tranquility
And she holds
the mic passionately
Angrily almost

Many OCs wave their own little signs in the air
Ink dust floating, lights flickering,
The whole town breathing in rhythm with her trembling voice.

Go girl, go
Best concert ever

They read

Encore, encore, encore
Vessel and Quaezar
Exclaim together
But then the ground
below rumbles
Cracks form
The Black Place quakes

What the actual fuc—
Yells a nimble one
Hex, I think this ain't a part of the show,
Vessel comments on the unfolding chaos
I know, stupid,
Replies Hex

A gaping hole forms and swallows time and space
And from the stage comes not a song but a poem

Bound forever our lies
Singer or a plot device
Eternal was our demise

Call us the bad guys, damn it

t h i s i s i n t h e i r m i n d s

Continue
006 × Poorly Drawn Little Shit

Previously
004 × Welcome To Where We Are