Chapter Text
Dave can hear them outside his window before he even opens his eyes. Shoving the pillow over his head, he groans, hoping whatever fancy flying car they’re riding past his window in flies the fuck away and leaves him alone for once.
It’s only when he hears the unmistakable “!!!” sound the chess dudes make that he bothers to get out of bed.
His room in the tower is small, but functional. The purple, sort of glowing walls are covered equally in posters he drew and orange runes to keep the imps out. Otherwise the pattern is distinctly familiar — his bed by the small, arched window, the computer against the opposite wall, and his turntables (the non magic ones, at least) near the door. His floor is littered in wires and more runes. It’s like rune city up in here, some people might even call it… runescape.
Out the window, he can see the parole of imps in their silly hats surrounding an unlucky Dersite, unarmed and unready for these assholes. This part of the glowing planet is usually safe; they’ve covered nearly every entrance through the strange and winding ornate buildings in orange and golden graffiti runes, but sometimes the imps break containment.
The purple hue that all of Derse is tinted with glows brightly underfoot, almost blocking out the dark colors of the imps and Dersite below. There’s a spot of yellow by the Dersite’s feet, one Dave notices immediately on instinct — a trigger plate. It’ll explode some random shit who knows where if someone steps on it. He’s made that mistake before. Sometimes it takes out a cluster of imps, other times you’re the asshole blowing up some guy’s house.
The worst part is he’s sure that wasn’t there yesterday. He’s sure it’s never been there any day before this one. This is his tower, his home, and someone has put it there, as if just asking him to step on it.
There are five imps down there, only one of them of a medium size, and the rest being those scrawny dudes that are annoying as shit but otherwise not really a threat. The Dersite could probably take them without him if it weren’t for the big imp, but he’s got a sword and it’s his job to handle it for some reason. Something something he’s the hero, be the knight — it’s fucking stupid. It shouldn’t take long to handle this shit, he’s just got to watch for the chess dude and make sure no one steps on that trigger.
Who even put that shit there? They’re all over the city and they’re inconvenient as fuck. He cannot, for the life of him, think of what the purpose of them could be, or could have been before the imps came. It sits on the corner of his mind, a fuzzy little mark, that there was a time before the imps.
If he jumps, the rush of wind would fuck his hair up something major, so he freezes it in time. There, can’t get fucked if you’re perma-stuck from five minutes ago in a millisecond time loop bitch. He jumps out of the window of his tall ass tower, enjoying the rush of air through his comfy purple pajamas now that it’s not gonna fuck up his cool guy cred by making his hair go super saiyan.
Although maybe that’s not the worst hairstyle. You could look cool like that, with the right face. Like Dave’s, but a little sharper, and his glasses would need to be different too. Thinking about what that would look like makes Dave’s head hurt, so he stops. It’s a waste of time anyway. The imps are still closing in on the Dersite. They’re really taking their time, huh? Oh wait, no, he just froze all local time when he froze his hair. Whoops.
Hey, if he’s already fucking with time to keep his cool guy cred intact, why not fuck it up to do some real damage, right?
He plays with the time running around him like strings in his fingers or discs on his turntables, amping up the metaphysical speed of his drop while fucking around with space-time enough on the time side that it won’t actually hurt him. Gog, he’s so glad… someone… someone taught him to do this. The vague tang of a fraymotif, something like a raspberry tart, sits on the back of his tongue, but there’s an empty space in his mind where a name should be.
No time to worry about that, he’s got a lady dude to save. He pulls his sword out in the last few seconds, and splits the largest imp in two.
It’s five clean swipes to take out the other four, working around the captive Dersite with smooth precision until the imps have each fallen to the ground in inky puddles. A second later each one bursts, leaving only ink in their wake. Gross. Hopefully someone cleans that shit up.
The Dersite falls back in surprise. She lands on the trigger plate. Somewhere in the distance a building explodes.
And then everything goes fuzzy. Dave can’t see straight, and his head feels light and dizzy and strange all at once. He tastes blood on the back of his tongue and feels the weirdest, softest shiver on his skin. And the sound – the all-encompassing sound. It’s like a cicada and an angry cat rolled into one. It’s a senseless chittering purring buzz. Some part of him screams to go running toward it.
When he comes to, the Dersite is gone.
Dave shrugs it off. Probably some horrorterror bullshit; they’re always bothering him. Whispering shit. Asking him to find the other knight, whatever that means. Telling him to follow black cats. Fuck that shit, everyone knows that’s shitty ass luck, and he’s got all these fucking imps to kill.
He wanders the streets, through a familiar path he doesn’t even realize he’s following, until he reaches the old bell tower. The square below used to be abuzz with activity, where the Archagent would announce the Black Queen's orders or the dreamers would go for parades and festivals. Now it’s marked in ink stains and lime green runes – the occasional white flit of text he’s more than happy to ignore.
Behind him is the chain connecting Derse’s moon. There’s a sharp slit in the stone, but it otherwise holds undamaged. The white text running up the chains reminds him to clear Derse first before he takes on the imps on the moon. His eyes slip past; there’s nothing for him up there. He finds himself turning, walking to the center of the square, and stopping. Around him the horrorterrors whisper, distant and unclear in what they want. A shiver runs up his spine.
He waits there, sword still in hand, looking up at the large clock as it ticks. He can feel the red strings of time flow around him, they vaguely smell of oiled gears and are hot to the touch if he forgets to keep it cool.
The clock overhead tolls. His hand tightens on the sword. The ground below his feet shakes. Thunderous footsteps, hollering, and the smell of ink approaches.
In the distance, down two of the main roads leading to the square, he can see the building rush of black – the approaching imps. One side is led by an orange streak, the other a white figure on a red skateboard. His free hand reaches out and calls his turntable to him. He can see the other two in the distance, ready to scratch time with him. The beat of time amps up, the music in his head rallying to match the pounding footsteps.
Davesprite and D lead their respective hoards into the square, imps of all sizes surround them as they sidle up on either side of Dave.
“‘Sup,” Dave greets.
“‘Sup,” Davesprite agrees. He looks nearly identical to Dave in every way, except for the fact that he’s orange, a bird, and instead of legs he has a sort of wispy long tail like a ghost. There’s also usually a sword sticking through his abdomen, but the center of the bandages on his gut remains empty. The orange katana sits in his clawed hands instead, mirroring Dave’s position.
“What’s up,” D greets. He’s, if they’re reading the time shenanigans properly, another identical Dave, just 20 years their senior. He’s got a stubble that he can’t quite keep tame and a shorter, somehow more disheveled haircut, but manages to exude cool in a way Dave looks up to. He aspires to be that cool one day, and he will be. That’s just how time shenanigans work. He’s passed up on everyone’s favorite purple pajamas in favor of a clean suit. Under his sunglasses, the bags under his eyes are darker than the furthest ring.
It’s time to fight.
One, two, three and on beat, each with a hand on their own disc, they scratch time. Future versions of Dave and D pop in, perfect loop after perfect loop under Davesprite’s watchful eye. The three of them hold the perfect harmony fraymotif between them, a chili-apple-pie-tasting spin of the cords as they watch their horde of imps knocked down to the melody.
And when all that’s left is ink splatters and the scent of oil, the hot hand of time grabs him by the neck and drags him back thirty minutes to do it all again, now called by his previous self’s spinning disc to be the hero he’s always been destined to be. He and D form a team in every iteration of themselves, going for the largest imps first with quick slashes of their blades, then following shortly with next smallest, from imps that are three stories tall down to the annoying little dudes that just terrorize civillians without fucking up entire buildings in the process. It’s dirty work, with swinging clubs just narrowly missing his head and the beat ever speeding up as they loop for hours, but it must be done.
And when it's over all that’s left is the ticking of the clock and their panting breaths.
Davesprite sheaths his sword right below his ribs and gets both of his hands on his turntables. “D, looks like you go left from here toward the West Bridge they blew last week. Hop it and wander however your heart leads you until you find a camp of them, they have captives in the back room, including some of the little white chess dudes.”
D and Dave’s brows furrow in the same way at the same moment. “Haven’t seen one of those in months,” they say at the same time.
“Injuries?” D asks.
Davesprite scratches on his record a few times. “Can’t tell, but you do carry one of them back.”
“Copy,” says D.
“Dave, you head South on some weird ass janky path like you’re a lost tourist who keeps walking around the fucking Waffle House but never in it, and then I can’t see shit ‘cause you wander into some gold bullshit. You basically walk into Blur Storm central like we agreed we weren’t gonna do.”
The Blur Storm has long been a location on their map, one they agreed to avoid until absolutely necessary. Permanently unclear in the timeline, Davesprite can’t see shit in there. Going in is going with no guidance. All Dave is really sure of is there’s trigger plates everywhere. “Fuck yeah, I love freestyling it.”
“Just make sure you make it back within two hours, we got a Jacks fight incoming and I don’t wanna have to re-hash this shit if you fucking die. Don’t make me time loop, bro; I do not have the energy to deal with another fucking timeline today,” Davesprite says.
“Copy that,” D says.
Dave wonders why he seems a little on edge, almost angry, but he’s too cool to ask and Davesprite is too cool to tell him. Instead he says, “got it.” The three of them bump fists and Davesprite finds his way to the top of the clock tower to watch time (and look out for radiating green branches emblematic of a Jack fight). D heads toward the blown bridge and Dave heads South.
He tags the South bridges with more runes first, figuring that must be where the imps got through, then starts wandering.
It’s easy to get lost. Derse is all tall buildings and darkness, the only light being the soft glow of the architecture. In the silence, the horrorterrors whisper again, a terrifying hiss of something that leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. Whatever they want, they’re louder about it today.
He doesn’t look up, giving a finger to the sky. You never look up, that’s how they get you.
Something black flashes across the road out of the corner of his eye. His sword appears ready in his hand as he turns to it, ready for a fight. Crossing the road between two high wall buildings is a black cat with four eyes. It isn’t a crosswalk, the cat is crossing from one open window to another, meaning the only real path is blocked now. Shit’s bad luck.
Dave sighs, lowering his sword, and looks around. There’s a small alley in the direction the cat went. He tags the entire road with runes with care to not cross the black cat’s path, then shimmies his way down the tight alley, spraying more runes as he goes.
His path grows winding as he wanders around, tagging every street and alley he finds in hopes of extending their perimeter.
An alley so narrow he can barely shuffle through breaks into a small path with an arched roof. Maybe this was some sort of market before the imps came. He can feel the vague ghost of bustling time on his fingers.
His footsteps are the only sound, a soft shuffling thud that doesn’t quite echo. He takes his time as he goes, still tagging the walls and streets in runes, but something feels off. Every part of his brain tells him to turn, to go into a different direction. He is not meant to be here. He should go back.
When he turns, it’s only to see a black cat cross his path. He can’t turn back. It loops around him, almost a complete circle. He steps back, toward the only path of his path still safe.
He hears a click, then a boom.
The trigger plate was not there before. He was sure just a second ago there had been none in the entire market. But now it’s there, a yellow circle marked in small white runes and script he can’t quite read. He cannot tell what he destroyed.
He looks back at the cat, only to see it sitting patiently in his path. It licks its paw with two tongues.
Another trigger plate appears next to it. Appears, out of thin air, out of the void. There was nothing and now it’s there, as if it has any right to be.
“Oh come on, man. No, don’t you fucking dare, dude, this is uncool as shit.” He tells the cat. Despite his complaints, the cat still steps on it.
The wall in front of him blows, taking part of the arched ceiling with it. He’s knocked by the debris, leg crushed underneath. His whole body burns.
He lands on his back, glasses slightly askew. His eyes focus on the darkness of the sky. The steady beat of time in his mind slows as the harsh whispers surround him. A wisp of wind carries a chill against his skin and the smells of burning and winter cold fill the air.
They speak over each other, a cacophony of horrible harsh hisses. “Find the knight,” some say. “Prince, rise up”, “follow the black cat”, “Seer, remember”, “kill the puppet”, “return to Prospit”, “Witch, collide”, “Rogue, take him”, “hide, do not be seen” — they whisper all at once.
Their rising, gurgling, horrible voices settle on one word, “disobey.” They chant it in every growing volume, though the harshness of the whisper remains, “disobey, disobey, disobey.”
“You do not know what you have lost,” a whisper comes under the rising chant. “Disobey, disobey, disobey.”
He puts his glasses back on. This is why he doesn’t look up.
Rewinding time on his own body hurts like a bitch. Every millisecond of his body healing itself to how it was is an excruciating pull toward the pain of the initial injury.
He does not flinch. He does not move. He just waits for the pain to end.
Standing feels like dying without the relief of being brought back to life. Disoriented still, he turns left, away from the cat crossed path and directly onto another trigger plate. In the distance, another building blows.
His vision blurs into nothing. It feels like a rough, warm sweater against his skin. Everything is so far away, so blurred he cannot see. His ears are ringing but underneath returns that cicada-like buzz. It tastes sour and sweet like longing and candies. It also tastes metallic like blood. That fuzzy feeling feels like a pull at the nape of his neck, a screaming voice that isn’t there dragging him toward the building he just destroyed.
He follows.
As he goes, his phone pings.
D: hey dude not to be super weird but i just got this shit ass premonition level feeling that youre doin some bs rn
Dave: when are we not doin some bs tho
D: i mean yeah fair but idk i think you need to turn back
D: my heads like screaming at me rn horror movie style dont go into the basement blonde cheerleader lady youre def gonna get axed
Dave: yeah ok i get it ill turn back
He doesn’t. He can’t.
His feet lead him on a winding path, ever following the shining arrows in his mind pointing directly at a partially destroyed structure he can’t even see.
There are shadows on the walls, ever growing hints of the increasing size of the imps he has miraculously avoided thus far. That tug on his neck sometimes feels like a pull on his hand, like someone is literally dragging him away from the worst of the danger, but still ever towards the rubble he created.
The path is narrow and paved in destruction. Drying ink stains splatter the walls, and he wonders if this is where the explosion from earlier in the day hit. The splatters look too dried to be fresh, and the dust has settled on the rubble already, but it’s not old enough yet for the ink to solidify and turn gummy.
A small imp sits partially under the rubble, one arm crushed by a rock, otherwise unable to move. He and Dave make eye contact.
The imps are not that different from most of the chess dudes, little black shellac covered humanoids. They have small, glowing eyes and sharp teeth and nails, and frequently jester hats, princess caps, added tentacles, or animal ears. This one has a snout like a dog and a princess costume. It looks terrified.
“Dude, bro, listen to me,” Dave tells it, “this is going to hurt like a bitch, and I’m so sorry about that, okay? I’m sorry.”
Every part of him is screaming not to do what he’s about to do, that he should kill the imp instead, but he can’t. He can’t. The conflict makes him feel so nauseous he nearly vomits, but he rewinds time on the rubble crushing the imps arm, freezes it in the air, then rewinds time on its arm until it’s healed.
“Sorry,” he repeats as he does it. Over and over again. He knows how much this shit hurts; this little imp dude doesn’t deserve this. The imp grimaces and then cries, eventually screaming in its harsh little voice, but within a few seconds its little arm is healed.
“You okay, little dude?” Dave asks. God, he’s really supposed to be killing this thing. He carefully pulls it out of the way before the time lock on the rubble breaks and it falls again.
“Be more careful, those trigger plates are bullshit,” he says. He tries to let go of the imp to go on his path, but it’s clinging to him for dear life. Any attempts to get its little shaking hands off only cause it to cling tighter, a sort of whining noise escaping him.
“Okay, okay, okay, I get it. We can be buddies. We can be friends. Just don’t hurt me and I won’t hurt you, yeah?”
Yeah, this is normal and totally allowed. No one’s going to be mad at him for this one. His phone chimes. Play it cool. Don’t tell them you accidentally adopted an imp.
Davesprite: jacks incoming get outta there
Dave: working on it
“Lil dude, you know how to get out of here? The Jacks are coming. You know, the dog dudes that shoot green electricity and destroy shit? Yeah. You know what I’m saying. I need to get back to the other knights; do you know how?”
The imp stares at him for a moment, blinking its little glowing eyes at him for a long moment. It keeps one hand balled up in his purple shirt as it drags down small paths. It’s shaking, still whimpering a little, and Dave isn’t even sure what to think. Some unreasonable, weird part of his brain is screaming, screaming, screaming for him to do something atrocious and morally reprehensible. It makes him sick. It makes his head hurt. Every part of him is vibrating with the urge to turn away and run.
This is wrong. It’s wrong. Whatever he’s doing, he’s not supposed to be doing it.
Disobey. They said to disobey. What is he even disobeying? His own instinct? He’s dizzy. His ears start to ring but the imp keeps pulling him. It feels like that hand is back on the back of his neck again, pulling him too. His mouth tastes like blood.
His vision gets blurry, unable to see the path he is being led on. He closes his eyes, finding it easier to walk without worrying about the vertigo from having them open. That bloody taste gets stronger, and his body weighs him down, but he keeps going.
Davesprite is going to have to reset the timeline. Man, he’s going to be pissed. They have a pretty strict no dead Dave’s policy around here. Hey, maybe that’s why he was pissed this morning. Maybe this is they’re second go around and he’s going to fuck it all up again, just like he always does. But it’s fine. He’s cool. Davesprite will be chill about it. They’re too cool to, say, get into a fucking fistfight that D has to break up over something as little as repeatedly fucking over the entire timeline.
Through the cacophony of fuzziness comes the sound of a beeping machine. There’s a tinge of electricity in the air. The Jacks are probably close.
The little imp dude stops pulling him.
He can hear the guttural hisses the large imps typically produce. He opens his eyes to find five of them staring him down, his little imp friend half hidden behind him and cowering. He can't blame it, these are the obnoxiously huge fuckers. Like holy fuck, dude, did you need the gold teeth like some wannabe gangster looking dumbfuck? You’re already three fucking stories, stupid hats scraping the ceiling like someone decided to lead a group of clowns through a fucking cave.
They’re in what looks like it could’ve been a hospital, since covered in ink splatters and falling rubble. There must have been a lot more imps here before Dave accidentally blew it up. It smells rancid, like the square around the clock tower does after they do their roundup.
Behind the five giant imps is a singular hospital bed, and a form that Dave can’t quite see. Whatever needle and tube shit the had plugged into it has been crushed under a giant fucking rock. Holy fuck, dude, do you get how lucky you are? How close you were to getting your brains fucking smashed out by Chekhov’s fucking boulder? Dave breathes a huge sigh of relief, if he’d accidentally killed some random dude instead of imps with his bullshit trigger shenanigans he thinks he might’ve had to do some fanciful ballet somersault of the nearest handle.
The five imps continue their growling and guttural hissing, trying to grab at his imp friend. One gets their hands on the poor little dude and it looks like they’re about to crush it. It’s crying out like it did when Dave healed its arm.
A second Dave appears, then a third. Dave sighs, pulling out his turntables to retroactively call them, and a few others, until the hot hand of time sears the back of his neck as it pulls him back. He doesn’t think much once there, just slashing down the huge fucker holding his friend with the help of the second Dave, then cleaning up the other four quickly. He gets pulled back three more times, until the back of his neck blisters and burns.
His purple pajamas end up covered in sticky black ink. He stands, panting, sword still drawn in a huge puddle of it, and wipes a drop from the corner of his mouth.
The little imp stares at him from the ground. It’s shaking harder than before.
“I’m not a bad dude, I promise,” he tells it, carefully putting his sword away and showing it his empty hands. “ I’m really not a bad guy ,” he’s not sure who he’s saying it to.
Whoever it was, it doesn’t really matter. The little imp runs away.
He had to, right? He had to kill them. It’s his job. He’s supposed to kill the imps. The imps are constantly destroying shit and terrorizing the chess dudes. They’re bad. They’re not supposed to be here. He’s supposed to, he’s meant to. He’s the hero. He feels heavy, like his mind is marred with the same inky sludge on the floors.
He’s at least the knight, whatever that means.
A weird chittering buzz emits from the lump on the bed. He goes and pulls the covers back, expecting a chess dude.
It’s not what he finds.
The world is fuzzy around him, distant and soft, in gentle golden lighting. The beep of the machine, the smells of rancid inky sludge, and the feeling of electricity on his skin all fade away into soft nothingness, until all that’s left is Dave and this weird dude he found on a hospital bed.
Do you ever feel like you’re floating and stuck all at once? You’re practically bioluminescent. You see someone and suddenly you’re like a goddamn glow in the dark star on some lucky asshole kid’s ceilings. You’re there, waiting on your ceiling, glowing in the dark , wondering if he’s really going to wake up.
He shifts from moment to moment like a bad dream. The soft chittering purr he makes when he does drives you further into that fuzzy feeling like you’re wrapped up in a cozy pile of your Bro’s smuppets, all plush felt rumps to lull your weary shit to sleep. Call it Lazytown in here, hit the snooze button for a few hours, because shit’s just that cozy. You bet you could give your sister all the yarn and fluff in the world and she couldn’t make anything even vaguely matching this supreme level of fuzz. It tastes like blood. It smells like latkes and applesauce. No amount of fairy lights and knowing your Bro is gone for a few days could match this – could match how fuzzy everything gets when he’s around.
He’s… he’s weird looking. Gray skin, sharp but uneven teeth that poke out from chapped lips, and nubby little candy corn horns hiding in his bird nest black hair. Both of his hands are held by chains, and there’s an IV from the destroyed machine next to them.
He has deep circles under his closed eyes, like he hasn’t slept in years. Damn, bro, you going for the Olympic gold medal in not fucking sleeping, huh? How’s the sleep deprived Oscar’s going for ya this year? Oh, Dave? He’s still waiting to come down, call him stuck to the ceiling with how light his head’s become.
Dave shakes his shoulders and says, “bro, you good? You alive?
The weird looking dude makes that chittering sound again, eyes opening and fixing on Dave. Something like confusion and recognition crosses his expression. The chittering sound turns into a cicada buzz mixed with angry cat to make for the weirdest fucking angry shouting Dave’s ever heard in his life, and the world’s only getting fuzzier the longer he listens to it.
The weird dude is gesturing wildly at him as he speaks bug. Dave’s phone chimes. He holds one finger up to the alien only for the dude to bite him.
Davesprite: jacks incoming bro u need to gtfo imediately
Dave: theres a dude here
Dave: like not a chess dude its a normal dude
Dave: sorta but hes gray and hes got these nubby lil orange and yellow horns and hes shouting at me in bug
Dave: so like a normal dude but also some sort of alien
Dave: yellow pjs too like wtf i didn’t know they sold this shit in yellow why do we only get purple where did shouty even get these
D: hes from prospit?
Dave: whats prospit
D: ill be real idk
Davesprite: doesnt matter u dont have time for this shit the jacks are like two minutes from popping in where you are
D: cant split the timeline dude if you die youll split the timeline
Dave: i know that would split the goddamn fucking timeline
Dave: but
Dave: what am i supposed to do
Dave: leave nubs here to get caught in the doggy lovers quarrel and die
D: nah of course not dude just grab him and go
Davesprite: yeah that’s not in our mainline but idgaf itd be rank as shit to leave him
Davesprite: i guess just bring him to the tower well figure shit out from there
D: its one dude how much could it really fuck the timeline
Dave: copy that
Dave turns to the shouting guy in the yellow pajamas and tries to ignore the headache quickly brewing. It’s easier not to look at him. He says, “shit, fam, idk if you can understand me but shit’s fucked. I’ve really had a good time with the shouting bugs and imp bullshit, but now we’ve gotta go. Run, we can’t stay here. I don’t want another timeline , and it would be dumb as shit if you were just sitting here waiting for the Jacks to kill you in their bullshit eterrnal fight thing. So like, me, myself, and I talked and we can’t leave you here . Let’s go.”
The buzzing shouts fade into a chittering purr and Dave fights through the wave of fuzziness that quickly overtakes him. His mouth tastes like blood. He can hear the Jacks fighting, feel the static against his skin – he knows they’re close.
And he can’t even look directly at the dude he’s trying to save.
“Dude, how do you make everything get so fuzzy?” He mutters, more to himself than to this alien that probably can’t even understand him. He twirls the sword in one hand to build up momentum then smashes it down on the chain holding the alien’s wrist. He does it again on the other side, cutting through what was left of the IV line as well.
With a soft ‘hup’ and a lot of shouting from Nubs, he throws the weird gilded alien over his shoulder and runs.
The electro-static follows after him; they just barely make it in time and they aren’t clear yet. This shit is about to be hairier than a suburban dad with a beer belly at the beach.
He keeps his sword at the ready as he runs like a headless chicken through the glowing fucking walls like holy shit, he never noticed just how obnoxious that shit is before. It’s like shining a black light on a teenage boy’s walls, what the fuck?
He sees imps along the way, fleeing the Jack fight as much as he is, as the green electric shit destroys hella shit around them. Some stupid part of his brain says it’s be easier to knock them down now, but the more reasonable part of his mind chimes in with a solid yeah and that’s why you’re not going to fucking kill them right now.
Seriously, what are you, a homicidal maniac? What’s with the sudden fucking bloodlust for helpless little pointy teeth not quite chess dudes? You’re being weird and uncool as shit, you’re going to scare off Shouty McNubs if you keep this mass homie-cide streak up like you’re some sort of imp serial killer. Eating up dudes in jester hats for breakfast, lunch, and dinner like that time Bro got a truck full of cereal just to fuck with you and that was the only food in the apartment for months and you just kinda said “bet” and ate it anyway.
There’s a crash nearby, and white Jack appears in the sky, parrying of black Jack and then roaring. He follows the rush of imps in hopes the have a better fucking clue how to get out of the Blur Storm than he does.
They lead him to one of the bridges he tagged earlier. The crowd of imps parts to let him through, frantic whimpery hissing sounds covering up Shouty’s own weird sounds. Dave’s head clears just a little as he crosses the bridge, not looking back at the crowd of imps he’s trapped in Jack Fight Central.
And then Shouty starts shouting at him, and everything goes fuzzy again.
It would be wack as hell to just leave these dudes to die via sempiternal dog fight. You’d be uncool if you did that, and if there’s one thing Dave Strider isn’t, it’s uncool.
He turns back time on the bridge until the runes disappear. The imps follow after him in a thundering rush.
Unconsciously, he leads them to the square below the clock tower. “Y’all can chill here. Just don’t go destroying shit,” he shouts at them. There’s a quiet nod amongst the crowd. Dave can still see the Jacks fighting in the distance, never getting close enough to the bridge to worry.
He turns toward the clock, only to find D and Davesprite staring at him. “Dude, what the actual fuck are you doing?” Davesprite asks.
“What was I going to do, let them die?” Dave asks.
“Yeah,” says Davesprite. “We’re supposed to be killing them anyway.”
“Why?” Dave asks. As he says it, he sets Shouty down on the ground, although Shouty seem content to half hide behind him like the other versions of himself are going to murder him.
He’s still making that weird cicada buzz mixed with angry cat noise he makes when he’s not shouting. Dave is getting used to how weird it makes his head feel.
“Just leave it,” D says. “They can stay here until the Jacks are gone. Eternal battle on hold until the hurricane is over.”
Davesprite pulls out his turntables and stares at the timeline, “this isn’t supposed to happen.”
“Ok but is it causing an offshoot? Have we deviated far enough that we’re going somewhere new?” Dave asks.
“No, it looks like the timeline is letting us change it,” Davesprite sounds perturbed.
“Dope, then it doesn’t matter,” D says, and then he disappears in a small flash of white.
“Oh worm. That checks out, he’s been here for like 13 hours real time; he had to wake up eventually,” Davesprite says.
“What?” Dave answers.
“IDK, dude. I’m just saying words. I rarely know what I mean.”
“Mood.” Dave stares blankly at Shouty McNubs, slumping half asleep against Dave’s shoulder, like he’s desperate not to sleep but no matter how hard he claws at wakefulness, it’s eluding him. “Hey dude,” he says to Davesprite.
“Hm?”
“Does he make shit go all fuzzy for you too?”
“What?”
“ Everything goes fuzzy when he’s around ,” Dave says again.
“Not really,” Davesprite says noncommittally. He watches Shouty now too, eyebrows furrowed. “Maybe a little.”
“When he starts purring, I can’t see shit,” Dave says.
“Huh. Weird,” Davesprite says.
“Yeah.”