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hs_olympics2012-06-10 01:02 am
hso_mods) wrote in hs_olympics2012-06-10 01:02 am
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BONUS ROUND 1
Bonus Round 1
Genre-Mixing
Hey, shippers! Welcome to your very first bonus round proper--we hope you have lots of fun with it! This time around we're going to be asking you to mix it up a little--each fanwork posted for this round will be a mish-mash of two different genres, blended together in a delightful incestuous slurry to create an UNSTOPPABLE CREATIVE CONCOCTION--er. Or. Something.
Yeah, we're genre-mixing. That's what we're doing this round.
Rules
- Submit prompts! Prompts should consist of two different genres and one ship. This cannot be your team's ship! These are worth 5 points each, for a maximum of 100 points per team.
- Look through the prompts and fill whichever you like!
- You may not fill prompts for your ship, nor may you fill your own team's prompts.
- Fills should be posted as replies to the prompts which they are for, following the format below. They may be any medium.
Title Format
If you are starting a new thread, please use this format in your title.
Replace [YOUR SHIP] with the name of the team YOU belong to; please use the characters and quadrant, not whatever portmanteau or nickname you've come up with.
If your team name is not in this format and in the title we cannot guarantee that it will be counted.
If you are filling a prompt, use this format in your title.
Replace [YOUR SHIP] with the name of the team YOU belong to; please use the characters and quadrant, not whatever portmanteau or nickname you've come up with.
If your team name is not in this format and in the title we cannot guarantee that it will be counted.
Posts not using this format in the title will be understood to be unofficial discussion posts, no matter what they contain. They, like all comments on the comm, are subject to the Wank Policy.
Scoring
For prompt posts: 5 points each (maximum of 100 per team)
For fills (as stated here):
First 5 entries in each post: 30 (per entry)
Entries 6-10 in each post: 20 (per entry)
Entries 11-15 in each post: 10 (per entry)
Entries 16+ in each post: 5 (per entry)
All scored content must be created/assembled new for this round.
If you have any questions, please ask them at the FAQ post here, or email them to us (homestuck.shipping at gmail). Otherwise, we cannot guarantee that we will see them in a timely fashion!
PROMPT: TEAM DAVE<3ROSE<3TEREZI
FILL: TEAM JADE<3ROSE
[And uhh, content warning forrr incest, bad/unhealthy relationship with an authority figure/role model, profanity/swearing, passing non-graphic reference to non-con, minor character death? /o\ I'm... so sorry...]
*
You haven't really been counting all that closely, but if luck would have it -- and with you, luck usually would have it -- today is your eighth wriggling day. Funny, there was always a part of you that thought you wouldn't live to see eight sweeps. And look at that: you didn't. You guessed right again. You're awesome. Go you.
You're doing your best to avoid everyone in the bubbles today. Well, to an extent -- you haven't really got the hang of making them do what you want, yet. You ain't Megido. Or the Harley human. Or basically anybody else. Okay, look, so maybe you kind of suck at the bubbles. But you can't be good at absolutely everything, okay???????? Gotta leave some specialties left over for the plebes, or they'll get whiny. You're doing them a favour, not being good at this thing. Taking one for the team.
For the team. Ha. Ain't that a laugh riot. Hasn't been a "team" since before any of you died in the first place, sure as hell isn't one now. Technically, since you are now a legal adult according to Alternian law, you have the government-sanctioned right to eat them all if they displease you. But something tells you that majority rules would probably trump the law out here, since the only government left is Peixes, and no one's seen her alpha self in basically forever. Some people are starting to think she's up to something. Fine by you; anything to shake this awful tedium since your last escape plan fell through. Not to mention that the people who are doing the suspecting in the first place are... not your very favourites that the afterlife's got to offer, to put it more nicely than you'd rather. But they'd certainly put it nicely; and with a hell of a lot more words, to boot.
In any case, it's to avoid them, as well as all the others, that you're here, wandering the dreamscape, looking for a nice, empty bubble to pop into to wait out the rest of the day in peace. Your current haunt is some kind of Alternian cityscape, and it's making you way jumpy. Isn't this Captor's old neighbourhood? Either way, there are far, faaaaaaaar too many dream spectres for your liking -- all these faceless, shifting splinters thronging the streets have to belong to somebody's memory. Any second now you're gonna round a corner and get a face full of awkward reunion. Nobody's got anything to say to you today, nobody's got anything to say to you period, and you haven't got anything to say to them either. You aren't gonna force the issue. Or at least you don't intend to. But matters might just as well be taken out of your hands if you can't find a new walk to prowl and fast.
But luckily for you (what else is new), you see a bubble mergepoint off to the side soon enough. Overall it would probably be smarter to poke your head in to check before committing to a transfer, but today you find that you don't much care what's waiting for you on the other side. You have to move on, and if the new bubble's no good, then you'll be able to find another one in time. But in any case, you're pretty sure that there's nothing that you could possibly find upon stepping into this bubble that could make you regret your decision.
Unbothered, you step into the bubble.
You immediately regret your decision.
Plumes of red fire scatter light across the sea, brighter and fiercer than the sickly, bruised glow of both the rose and jade moons hanging low in the sky. All around you on deck, trolls of all castes and stripes flit like moths, putting out fires, loading canons, banking sails. The crowd is a flurry of silkgrub shirts and gaudy jewelry, and polished pinkwood railings rising through it like snagged logs in a stream. You'd know this ship anywhere. This is the Corsair. Mindfang's flagship.
There is literally only one thing that could make this bubble worse.
"Oh, Vriska!" comes the voice of your undoing, light and self-important from behind you. "Happy Wriggling Day!"
As a special occasion for the day of your hatching, apparently, your luck has deserted you. How thoughtful of it. What a perfect opportunity for you to reflect on the giant, colossal failure that is, was, has been your life.
Perfect. Just perfect.
"Hey, Aranea," you say, turning around like a sinner off to the gallows.
She's sitting on the stairs prim and proper, satisfied little smile on her face like it always goddamn is. She sits in the middle of a maelstrom of fire and death and she looks upon you, serene as if it were a third summer's night garden party, and says, "Fascinating piece of history isn't it?"
You want to sob. You want to scream. Instead you say, "Does it really count as history if you were there?"
She smiles brightly at that -- always so goddamn unbothered -- and gestures in the direction of the captain's cabin. "That the Marquise is involved simply makes it all the more intriguing! I do love a good adventure story."
This last sentence is punctuated by a bloodcurdling shriek as a sailor goes overboard straight into a flotilla of flaming debris right over her right shoulder. Surely she must be doing this on purpose. She's a fucking parody or herself.
"Adventure, sure, yeah," is all you say. You don't say, thousands of trolls probably died in this battle. You don't say, YOU SENT thousands of trolls to die in this battle. And you sure as hell don't say, I would have sent thousands of trolls to die in this battle, or battles just like it, if not for the game.
And look at that. You let your attention waver from her for a second, just a second, and now she's conjured up a cup of tea. Aranea sips her tea among the wails and shouts of dying and soon-to-be-dying sailors and asks politely, "So how is your special day going so far?"
"Oh, fine," you grit out, still managing to sound civil, God knows how. "You know. Reflecting on my life's failures and all that crock. The usual."
The reply that she offers up is something like, "Oh, that's a pity, on our planet it wasn't quite like that, it was--", but you don't hear it, because you're too busy realizing, suddenly, that it's not your fault.
None of it. None of it's your fault. None of your life's failures, none of the terrible things you did. None of it! Not a single thing! And why?
Because everything you did, every person you hurt, everything you did wrong, every single idiotic goal you tried and failed and lived and died for...
All of it was for Mindfang. To be like Mindfang.
Aranea's still fucking talking.
"Hey," you say, cutting off some diatribe about the different kinds of silk the sailors wore or something ludicrously inane like that. "You know, Mindfang was a terrible person."
That certainly distracts Aranea from her lecture, at least enough so that she actually shuts up and looks at you. Though she only misses a handful of beats before saying, mildly, dismissively, "Well, she was a product of her time."
"No," you say, and you know you say it hard enough because her perfect demure mask is actually disturbed by her eyebrows reaching ever so slightly towards her hairline. "She was terrible. The worst."
And Aranea is forced to pause again. She fiddles with her now-empty teacup, disappears it into the dream ether, crosses and uncrosses her legs. "These sorts of things," she begins delicately, "are rather subjective--"
"No," you say again, and you know that's the beginning of a sob you're starting to hear but damnit, you don't care. "She was objectively fucking terrible. She raped and murdered people and she sent millions more to their deaths and you know which part is actually the part that makes her terrible?" You pause, Aranea pauses too, too bad, time's up, you continue. "She never felt bad for any of it at allllllll. She thought she was hot shit! And you know who else thought she was hot shit?!"
You hadn't really noticed you were moving forward as the volume of your voice mounted, but suddenly your standing knees are touching Aranea's seated ones, so you take this opportunity to bend down and yell in her face.
"Me!!!!!!!! I thought Mindfang was hot shit!!!!!!!!" You start to laugh and you know that's bad, that can turn to crying quick and that's not what you need right now, but you don't have time to calm down. "So you know what I did????????"
Aranea's still not saying anything, or even changing expressions for that matter. You're pretty sure the blood has drained out of her face though. Good. Wait'll she hears this.
"I was a terrible fucking person, too!!!!!!!!" you yell right in her face. "Still am!!!!!!!! Did you know that killing people doesn't make them like you???? It just makes them dead???? So why did I still do it all the time, huh???? Why did I still do it????"
Chatterbox's still got nothing to say, apparently, so you take a deep breath, get right up close to her auricular canal, and whisper, more hoarsely than you meant to:
"Because I still -- still, still -- think Mindfang is hot shit. I still want to fucking be her. She was the most terrible goddamn person, and I was, am, the most terrible goddamn person, too."
You take another deep breath, and this one comes in shuddery. Oh, great, now you're going to start crying. You lean back from her face and, haha, well, at least she's not smiling anymore.
When the first hard sob comes, your knees give out, and, whoops, you end up falling down into sitting on her knees. Oh well, you're way past the point of wanting to save face anyway. But you have one thing, one more thing, that you need to say before you start blubbering.
"Al-ll I wanted," you say, jabbing a finger at her chest, "all I e-ever wanted was to be acknowledged by Mindfang. I knew it was impossible. But I ju-ust-- I just felt like if I could hear her, say, you know, that I was terrible and she-e was terrible, and, that tha-at was okay, then that would be enough." God, you sound like Toreador. Fuck crying. But you're not done.
"But you." This time you wag your finger right in her face. "But you! You're Mindfang. And you won't even ack-- acknowledge--"
Aaaand that's it, you're done. You're away and sobbing. You're sitting there, sobbing on her knees, and she's sitting there, shell-shocked, not even reacting. What else is even new. You didn't even get to call her out for not acknowledging how terrible she is. Ugh. Ugh.
This is the worst wriggling day ever.
Or maybe not. Maybe your traitorous luck hasn't completely and utterly deserted you once and for all, because finally, finally, when you get down to hiccups... she moves. Slowly, carefully, she takes your wrists in both her hands, and pulls your digits away from where they're trying to wipe your puffy blue face.
And she kisses you right on the snotty, gross mouth.
It's not a long kiss. When she breaks it, you hiccup again.
You glare at her dubiously through puffy eyes. "I'm pretty sure," you say, spent, "that you're not supposed to swap spit with people you share caste, sign, and completely exact genetic make-up with."
She leans her forehead against yours, and that's when you realize that, somewhere along the way, without you noticing, she's been crying, too.
"I've done worse," Aranea says.
Re: FILL: TEAM JADE<3ROSE
Re: FILL: TEAM JADE<3ROSE
and still thinking Mindfang's hot shit--
AUGH VRISKA BEST TERRIBABY OF MY SOUL YOU ARE THE WORST THIS IS SO GREAT
And seconding, again. That last line. Way to pull it all together, damn. <3 Thank you!