Houston's warm as hell. You feel like it always has been, but you're guessing global warming isn't a thing that's going to stop happening any time soon. The weather isn't the reason you're waking up in a cold sweat, though, not any more than it is the reason your heart feels like it's trying to burst out of your chest like some kind of knock-off Xenomorph. You sit up, grabbing your shades off the desk to lessen the glare of the sun coming in through the window.

Your name is DAVE STRIDER, and your Bro is angry at you.

This should only be his problem, but he's making it your problem, so you're stuck having to deal with it.

And he's really fucking angry at you.

You don't want to admit it, but it's getting to you. Way worse than the Groundhog Day thing, too, because you've only looped back once since—since this morning? Since yesterday? Since Bro stopped you in the middle of your tracks and then just... went to the roof. Without even putting on his shades. You think that freaks you out more than anything else—you can count the amount of times you've seen his bare eyes on one hand, and none of them were good.

He came down eventually, but you had been stewing in your nerves so long that by the time he did, slamming the door behind him, it shocked you bad. Next thing you knew, something happened, a record scratch skipping across your mind, and you were on your bed, hyperventilating.

You can already tell that this time travel shit is going to get real old real fast. Or real young real slow. Whatever.

Through the door, you hear something that sounds suspiciously like someone breaking a phone with a cinder block. You resolve not to leave your room at all today. Maybe if you just stay out of Bro's way, you won't panic, and then you can both just pretend none of this ever happened. No fucking way are you going out there this time.

You don't think you've ever seen him this angry before. Mostly when he flips out it's much less... directed, for lack of a better word. And it's not really flipping out, more like he's going into some sort of weird hermit phase; you've gone days before you realize he's having an episode, and by then he's usually stuck in front of the computer and going through the camera feeds over and over. Other times it's much more obvious, like when he goes on a thirty-something-hour marathon of burning DVDs that you get stuck packing for the next week or so after school—who even fucking buys DVDs anymore, anyway?

It only happens once in a while, and there's always a crash afterwards where he barely does anything at all, either cooping up in the crawlspace or lying on the futon for hours on end. That's when he gets testy and acts like a real dickhead, demanding you go strife or prying into your personal life or bugging you about school—or, well, “Cal” does, since Bro basically never admits to any of the stupid shit he's doing with that puppet, and acts like he doesn't know what the hell you're talking about afterwards. You've woken up to those lifeless orange eyes staring at you from the doorway more times than you can count. You guess it's not that bad, because Bro doesn't actually talk much to begin with, so the puppet checking in on you is, like, his way of showing he actually cares? That's the most charitable you can get with him, really, since most of the time he doesn't express anything other than stone-cold apathy.

This, though? This is stone-cold rage. You saw it in the tightness of his jaw when he came back down, the fucking look in his eyes. This is something you desperately want to avoid.

You stand up, putting on the t-shirt you've left on the mattress two days ago. Or yesterday, you guess? If you go with the time loop logic of this technically still being the same day, it would be yesterday that you let the whims of gravity decide where this tee would alight upon in its journey down from the heavens, by which you mean you throwing it over your shoulder after you took it off. Sniff test proves it to be wearable, so as far as you're concerned, it checks out.

Opening up the closet, you grab a sleeve of crackers you've got squirreled away for days like this. After a moment of deliberation, you go for the AJ too—the taste of vomit still haunts your tastebuds, even if that was at least a few hours ago and technically didn't happen anymore. Plus, dry crackers have never gone down easily for anyone.

Outside your room, it's silent. You don't know if that's better or worse than if Bro was still wrecking shit, but it has you chomping down on those crackers like it's Judgement Day and the only thing between you and the gates of heaven is the rigorous consumption of snacks.

He's probably just doing something on his computer. He's fine. You're fine. As long as you don't go outside of your room, he isn't going to try and drag you out, and he isn't going to try and stab himself like some sort of fucked up dudebro samurai committing sebroku because his rhymes were too shitty for his broshido code. You can stay holed up in here for at least two days, maybe three, even if you're going to get hungry at some point. Who knows. Maybe he'll already have killed himself by then, with you playing absolutely no fucking part in it. Maybe you'll have to deal with cleaning up after him. Maybe you'll have to drag his shitty lifeless body through the fucking apartment building just to get him in the dumpster, fuck, you already know how god damn heavy he is, not like it's going to be harder getting him down with the elevator than it was trying to get his dead weight off you—

You bite your finger, too caught up in your thoughts to realize you're chewing on gross bready mass without actually getting it down the hatch. You blink, take a swig, wipe your hand on the mattress. Everything about this sucks, you decide, down to the part where you're one train of thought away from hyperventilating constantly. That part sucks extra bad, actually, because your brain is like an Amtrak station. Choo choo, motherfuckers. One way trip to breathing in a bag town, population soon to be at least one extra.

You hear the sound of the electric kettle going off in the kitchen. He isn't dead, then. Great. That's at least one worry off your list. No corpse-cleaning for Dave Strider in the near future, thank fucking god. Your Bro should win Bro of the Year for that. Maybe you should get him one of those #1 Bro cups, just for the effort expended to keep himself from going off the deep end. Then again, you think he might actually use it, if only for the irony of it.

You know Bro probably isn't actually your older brother. You don't know what to think of that, so you very pointedly try not to, but sometimes the thoughts creep in like they're trying to win the prize at the annual burglary contest. Like they're a Radiohead cover band looking for a new venue. Like some other third metaphor that you can't be bothered to waste time on because you are trying not to think about it.

Still.

Albinism aside, you've got different eye shapes, noses, hair texture—you think there would be a lot more similarities between the two of you if he were your brother. Ditto if he were your dad. The thought of him filling out adoption papers seems patently absurd; you know it sounds like a sad-ass thing to say, but you genuinely think he's never wanted you around. You're just someone he's stuck caring for. And you obviously know diddly-fucking-squat about your mom, if she's even still out there. No way you're ever going to get a straight answer out of Bro on that—it's already hard enough talking about anything with him, much less the family-sized elephant in the room. So you ignore it.

If you think about it too hard, it just lays heavy on your chest and makes it hard to do anything at all.

You throw the empty sleeve into your little shitty plastic trash can and put aside the apple juice. You need a distraction—your friends should be awake by now.

You open up your computer, and let Pesterchum do its automatic startup thing. You read through some of the messages your friend Jade's sent you while you were asleep—seems like she's planning a trip with her grandfather and using your DMs as a packing list—and skim the notifications from the server. Seems like the poll you sent out has had inconclusive results; there is an almost exact 50-50 split on whether Shrek 2 counts as fine art. Democracy falls flat on its face once more.

Pesterchum recently did a revamp of their layout, and you're still getting used to it. There's a lot of new features, and you've jumped on them like a shark on blood—as soon as it rolled out, you immediately created a server for you and your friends to hang out in without having to deal with the fucking mess that were memos.

It's nice to finally have some more visual elements to the whole thing, too, especially with regards to things like profile pictures. And especially since they still, for some unfathomable reason, use the abbreviation system. It's a nightmare coming back to a screen filled up with messages from someone exploiting the initial chaos of trying to figure out which person is actually talking to you, doubly so when you know several pranksters who have done that multiple times. The new look makes virtual identity theft a lot harder, or at least, only attractive to people willing to put in a lot of work into impersonating someone. Which the aforementioned pranksters usually are, anyway.

Speaking of pranksters. There's one right at your metaphorical electronic doorstep.

You open up your DMs.

ghostyTrickster started pestering turntechGodhead at 9:21 a.m.

GT: hey dave!
TG: sup
GT: do you have time to hang out today? i just got this new game, it seems like it is really shitty.
GT:

TG: oh fuck yes
TG: i would love to get in on some bullshit edgy shooting action
TG: ive got some shit ive gotta sort out though
TG: mind if i unload some hot steaming baggage on you
TG: and i mean
TG: steaming
TG: its unbelievable how steaming it is
TG: this shit could fill up a sauna
GT: gross!
GT: but sure, that would be fine i think.
GT: not if i have to listen to one of your shitty raps again though.
TG: jesus
TG: you cant just say that to a man
TG: you wound me
TG: its like our years long friendship means nothing to you egbert
TG: my sicknasty flows are serious business
GT: oh great.
GT: here we go :|
GT: dave, if you start rapping, i am not going to respond until you're done!
TG: trouble brewing in the strider household
TG: its not even funny
TG: shits sicker than the common cold
GT: :|
TG: more sticky than honey
GT: ok, i told you dog! i warned you bro! no more egbert for you!
TG: time to take it up a notch natch bring the rematch aint never met a ball i couldnt catch
TG: record scratch
TG: scratch that beat phat
TG: if it sat down shoot it down like ratatat and another wouldve gotten where its at like stat
TG: thats a fact
TG: exact
TG: call me the davelorean the way it's going back
TG: call it egregious jesus please just let the groove soothe you
TG: move you cool you down like the sound of a rhyme most profound
TG: call my ass bigfoot the way my shits never been found
TG: lacking in quality all of these clowns still bothering me
TG: smothering me
TG: wont stop hollering at me
TG: just take it easy
TG: peasy
TG: peachy-keen squeeze see
TG: never wouldve took the time rewind stop and see what's on your mind you might find the conclusion is anything but kind
TG: anyway
GT: wow.
GT: that was a lot shorter than usual, what gives?
TG: listen im under a lot of stress okay
TG: im breaking out the emergency rhyme stash
TG: you know the movie groundhog day
GT: the bill murray movie?
TG: yeah
GT: oh man, that movie rules.
TG: come on it sucks ass it isnt even a good romance
GT: that's a lie and you know it. rita sees that phil's become a jerk with a heart of gold instead of the huge asshole he started out as. and she opens up to him because of that!
TG: yeah how is she supposed to know thats genuine from her perspective shes just seen him suddenly change just to get her to trust him
TG: just saying no way that shit would fly with me
TG: anyway thats the gist of whats going down
TG: basically imagine that movie but less dogshit romance and a lot more cool sword tricks going down
TG: edge of tomorrow type shit
TG: except there arent any aliens
TG: and no tom cruise
GT: hmm, alright.
GT: can you prove it though? like how phil did with rita in groundhog day.
TG: uh
TG: i guess
GT: how about telling me what i'm about to say next? :B
TG: i dunno man
TG: maybe something like “gee willikers i sure think dave is a cool guy”
TG: “i sure do trust him with telling me the truth all the time”
TG: “and everything he does rules”
GT: close! but no cigar.
GT: not even a hint of tobacco actually.
TG: dude i havent even done two loops
TG: you cant just ask a guy about the future in his time loop virginity thats like asking a kindergartner to do picasso
TG: scratch that actually i bet a kindergartner could do picasso
TG: id MAKE a kindergartner do picasso and sell it as a long lost masterpiece
GT: i don't know dave, this whole time loop thing just seems like a bad prank to me.
TG: whatever man
TG: ttyl
TG: if im not waking up again today to some shitty alarm by then
GT: ok, well i'll be streaming in the server then i guess.
TG: see ya

ghostyTrickster ceased pestering turntechGodhead at 9:48.

Great going, dude. That just left you in a worse mood than before.

You grumble, motivation to answer any of Jade's messages blown away like dust in the wind. You shut down your computer. Even though you could be wasting away your energy on doing shitty comics, you can't see any reason to. Nothing you do is going to matter, right? Not as long as you live in this place where you can't even go out of your room without getting so scared you turn back time just to avoid whatever your brain thinks is going to get you this time.

Jesus Christ. You can just do that now? Exert complete control over the passage of one of the basic building blocks of the universe? Well, almost. It clearly isn't complete control of it, since you apparently can't do it if you aren't having a panic attack, but still. It's kind of a lot to process. Not like it's helping you a lot, either, if it's gotten Bro so mad at you he wanted you to kill him. Which was somehow the shock your brain needed to actually keep remembering the loops. Does beg the question of what the hell was actually happening before—was Bro just doing whatever before he snapped bad enough to think of that?

You frown. That's actually pretty concerning, considering what your Bro might think of as doing whatever. The more you roll the thought in your mind, the more terrible curiousity feeds it—he doesn't remember how many loops he's gone through, right? That must mean it's been at least a dozen, or something like that, depending on the length. The length being however long it took for you to freak out about whatever he was doing. Which he's managed to do at least a dozen times.

You feel a sting of irritation at yourself, and at your own weakness, but it's quickly overtaken by the fact that he used you as a medieval ass execution method and that's what fucked you over so much you fell out of your bed in your fight against a weight that wasn't pressing down on you anymore.

What was he doing before that? You don't know if he'll answer you if you ask him, but you can still try and get under his skin enough that he might let something slip. He might get actually for real pissed at you, though. Or more than he already is, you guess.

Fuck it. You have a free escape route in your back pocket. Might as well use it for something.

You open the door out with confidence that you don't have. Bro is sitting on the futon, body hunched over in full-on Igor look-alike mode. His face is almost entirely hidden, brim of his cap pulled down low and shades secure over his eyes. He's put on his gloves, too, hands wrapped around the controller to your console. Whatever he's playing has been broken so utterly you can't even tell what it is any more, stray assets bouncing around the screen like nobody's business.

“Hey,” you say, and you mentally high five yourself for the way your voice doesn't shake.

He doesn't say anything. There's a press of a button, and a stray bundle of polygons—that you think is supposed to be the player?—turns inside out.

“What's up with the ritual suicide, dude,” you ask, and wince at your own words. Sometimes you really need to think before you speak.

“Tryin' ta secure my spot on America's Next Top Sacrifice To The Unknowable Force That Controls Our Every Move,” he says, flipping the bundle of polygons back right-side-out, “figured I'd send in my application early.”

“Fuck off,” you shoot back, “just tell me.”

“Doesn't matter. The fuck d'you care if I'm alive or not, anyway,” he says, not even looking over at you.

“Maybe I do fucking care, you asshole,” you mutter. You do care whether he's alive, you think, even if you don't know if you care for him or not.

Actually, now that you're thinking about it, you're finding that you don't care about him. You just don't want to remember the blood spreading through the fabric of his shirt every time you look at him. You don't want him to die.

You guess that must count as caring as far as he's concerned.

“Don't,” he says, easy as, like you could just turn it off. Maybe it's like that for him. Maybe he just snops his fingers and poof, no more emotions or having to care about what other people do. Maybe it's just that easy. You feel a petty anger well up in you at the thought, pushing you to take it that step further. See how he likes it when someone pisses him off.

“Yeah, and I could ask you to take down the fucking cameras, but we both know that isn't going to happen,” you spit, and immediately regret it.

“What was that?” Bro asks, voice flat. He's turned to look over at you now, controller loose in his hands.

You don't answer, because you've just hurled yourself off the cliff, and if you opened your mouth you'd just be digging yourself deeper. Or making the ground harder. Whichever is worse in this metaphor. There's sweat rolling down your neck.

“I'm askin' ya, kid, where the fuck d'you get off tellin' me what to do?” He puts down the controller, leaving the game to tread water as it tries to unfuck itself.

You bite your lip. Fuck it. In for a penny, in for a pound, you guess. You take a shaky breath. In, out.

“That's what I—” he starts, but you don't let him finish.

“Same place you get off makin' me fight you all the god damn time!”

You shout without intending to, and your voice cracks right down the middle and it is mortifying. You feel your chest tighten up as Bro's face shifts ever-so-slightly, brows furrowing.

“Dave,” he says, in that way that makes your blood run colder than an Alaskan's ass, “you cut that shit right out.”

“What, and act like everything's just fine? Like you didn't just run into my sword like some kind of fucked up lemming? Like it's normal that I have to hide food in my room just to make sure I fucking have any? Like it's fucking normal that you never fucking talk to me like a regular human being?”

You snap your mouth shut, teeth grinding against each other. Bro, true to form, does not say anything. You feel your breath come shallowly, tears beading at the corners of your eyes, and wait for anything, anything, heart beating at a million miles an hour. Suddenly, he moves—he stands up from the futon, and Jesus fucking Christ he's looming over you like you're nothing. You shrink back without meaning to, find yourself backing up to the desk. He doesn't stop, though, and as you look up at him sheer panic mixes with the memory of suffocating, your legs pinned against the concrete of the roof by his torso, warm blood spreading over your clothes as you tried to get him off from on top of you—

Record scratch, and you feel the twitch in your fingers that you realize has become almost instinctual at this point. There is total silence for all of a moment, the entire apartment stopped in its tracks. Bro does not move.

Then, like nothing happened, you wake up.

The sleeve of crackers is gone in seconds, and you throw it up into the bin almost immediately.

You grab your glasses and turn on your computer to look at the message Egbert's sent you. You think about answering it. You almost throw up again, tongue heavy in your mouth, but you just cough on it instead. You can handle it.

When your heart's beating at a regular rate again, you switch over to someone else. Maybe it's easier if it's someone you haven't had a conversation with yet.

turntechGodhead started pestering tentacleTherapist at 10:23 a.m.

TG: hey
TG: you there
TT: Barely, but yes.
TT: What's bothering you?
TG: wow swinging straight out of the gate i see
TG: why would you even assume theres something wrong
TG: just cause im in our dms and not in the server
TG: maybe ive been hankerin for a good ole dose of immaculate purple banter
TG: maybe i just need a little thesaurus electroshock delivered straight to my frontal cortex without it being in a public forum
TT: Dave.
TG: ok geez i get it i get it
TG: blah blah youre basically the only person i can freak out at because we both have a veneer of irony that saturates our every interaction
TT: And I presume this sincerity is in reality yet another layer of irony laid upon the thick layers now coating our true intentions.
TG: yeah duh obviously
TT: Obviously.
TT: What did you want to talk about?
TG: lets just say
TG: hypothetically
TG: that theres this guy
TG: whose bro is real pissed at him
TG: for no fucking reason
TG: actually there is a reason but its super fucking weird and i cant figure out why the fuck hed be mad at me for that cause its like the exact fucking opposite of what ANYONE would be mad about and its like
TG: come on man of all things to get mad at its THAT
TG: and i kind of pissed him off even more because i tried to talk about it
TG: anyway
TG: point is
TG: uh
TT: Go on.
TG: i guess im just realizing my bro hasnt actually ever been mad at me
TG: until now
TG: and its uh
TG: its really fucking bad
TT: Considering the previous conversations we've had on the topic of your brother, this doesn't exactly fill me with confidence.
TG: yeah consider my ass firmly on the chaise longue we are having a fucking capital s session right here right now
TT: Way ahead of you, Mr. Strider. The fountain pen is already racing across the wide vast planes of my notepad, chronicling every single pregnant pause and the unfathomable depths of meaning within them, and indeed the subtexts that they are pregnant with.
TG: damn right every single pause and diversion in my messages is a hot milf in your area who desperately needs the touch of an experienced therapist psychological or otherwise
TT: Including, of course, this sidetrack.
TG: ok damn i guess you dont want to explore the conceptual milves with me i see how it is
TG: really starting to doubt youre serious about the lesbian thing
TT: Dave, I can assure you, I have no greater interest than exploring the conceptual MILFs of psychological trauma.
TT: It just so happens that the best way of doing that is to actually tell me about it.
TG: shit you got me
TT: So you were saying?
TT: About your brother.
TG: so like
TG: i know whatever the fuck ive been raised to see as normal is like fucked up and everything but hes
TG: never really been angry
TG: at anything ive done
TT: Never?
TT: Sorry, I just find it wildly implausible that a man who places so much weight on being a “bro” has never acted out in what he would perceive to be perfectly appropriate ways which he would rationalize through the common perception of masculinity and expressions thereof.
TT: Which would include a certain degree of violence.
TG: nah hes mostly just
TG: weirdly distant
TG: slash only invested in “training” me or whatever
TT: So more of a stoic type, then.
TG: dude practically invented the word
TG: anyway i guess hes been frustrated with me before or whatever
TG: but not actually angry at me
TG: even when we're strifing and i graze him or whatever he just shrugs it off
TG: which is like pretty wild cause that thing is sharp man
TT: Wait.
TT: You have a real sword when you're fighting your brother?
TG: yeah but like
TG: its not like hes gonna get hurt and he basically only ever uses his shitty sword when we spar so
TG: its equal ground
TT: Dave, you do realize that this is still a grown man sparring with a teenager.
TG: or like as close to equal ground as you can get when youre an adult fighting a kid jesus christ rose let me finish
TT: With actual blades, unless I'm misunderstanding.
TG: listen thats all a discussion that im not about to get into right now
TG: we have had enough conversations about this if you want a rehash i can direct you to any of our chatlogs in the past year or so where i even remotely make the mistake of mentioning my home life
TG: ah yes a fine vintage youve chosen from december 2014 about my birthday
TG: or would madame prefer the various april 2015 chatlogs when everything went to fucking shit
TG: the point is
TT: ...
TT: Dave, why is your brother angry at you?
TG: i dont fucking know
TT: Please.
TG: fuck okay okay
TG: dont get all sincere exasperated worry at me lalonde you know it freaks me out
TG: im already freaked out my freak has busted the cage and is dancing wildly around in my room
TG: the freak is out and is going to pride about it
TT: I'll refrain from pointing out the implications of said freak seeking out a community where they might feel accepted for who they are and not be judged for expressing themself.
TG: thank you
TG: i always knew i could depend on you not jumping immediately on to psychoanalyzing any hint of my latent homosexuality
TG: which im not
TG: btw
TT: Of course.
TT: May I direct us back to the subject at hand?
TT: This being the reason for said freak being out in the first place.
TG: yes fuck fine
TG: so
TG: its like
TG: for reasons that are not really relevant
TG: weve been stuck in a situation for a while
TG: me and my bro i mean
TG: and something serious happened to him
TG: so i panicked and tried to help
TG: which actually worked
TG: i think
TG: but now hes like
TG: mad at me for doing it
TG: and for asking why the fuck he's mad at me
TG: which is a. fucking irritating cause like dude
TG: i just basically saved your life
TG: and youre pissed about that
TG: like come on
TG: thats fucked right
TT: That is... concerning, I'll agree.
TT: And would probably make more sense if you put yourself in danger doing so.
TT: But considering how little your brother seems to care for your safety in the first place, I'm not particularly inclined to believe that he would be angry at you due to any misplaced worry.
TG: yeah yeah we both know hes an asshole who doesnt care about me
TG: no need to rub it in
TT: There's three years of chatlogs proving the contrary, actually.
TT: Regarding the need to rub it in.
TT: It sounds like your brother's getting angry about being confronted with his own irrational reactions. I imagine your brother has put quite a lot of weight in his own decisions, and pointing out that they aren't particularly good or making another decision that contradicts them awakens deep feelings of inadequacy or shame in him.
TT: Hence his acting out on you as the source of this incongruity
TT: I'm still sensing a missing B. here, though.
TG: b. its
TG: uh
TG: i guess
TG: kind of scary
TG: like he doesnt actually
TG: hit me
TT: Except for your regular sparring sessions.
TT: Where you apparently fight with actual swords.
TG: listen thats
TG: ok its not that different but like
TG: thats
TT: Controlled?
TT: Ritualised?
TT: Set within parameters that he's conditioned you into accepting?
TG: rose can you please just
TG: shut up
TG: for one second
TG: the point is
TG: he doesnt just hit me out of nowhere
TG: and
TG: i dont fucjing know okay hes acting weird and thats it
TG: hes acting weird and i dont like it and i keep making it worse
TG: can we please just
TG: talk about something else
TT: Okay.
TT: I just want to know.
TT: Has he?
TG: done what
TT: Hit you.
TG: jesus
TG: no he hasnt fucking hit me he hasnt done shit which is why its so fucking stupid that im freaking out about this shit because he hasnt actually done anything yet and im just waiting for the ball to drop so i can be like oh thank god heres finally a good fucking reason for me to be scared of my bro and proof im not just freaking out about nothing because guess fucking what
TG: ive spent fucking years thinking he was angry at me for doing stupid shit and he was just too fucking cool to actually yell at me or hit me or kick my ass when i deserved it so guess fucking what i wasnt even fucking worried about it it was chill strifing was chill cause when i got my ass kicked it was just cause i wasnt good enough and not because he actually wanted to beat me up
TG: he got me water when i passed out he got me painkillers he fucking takes care of me and i dont fucking know why maybe he feels guilty about it or something but fuck he doesnt just hit me out of nowhere
TG: he didnt
TG: but now hes actually fucking angry and its because of something i did and i just made it worse
TG: and its
TG: fuck
TG: jesus christ
TG: fuck you man
TG: i cant do this right now
TT: Dave...
TT: I'm sorry for bringing this up.
TT: It was unfair of me to spring that on you out of nowhere.

turntechGodhead ceased pestering tentacleTherapist at 11:04

TT: But I can't help that I'm worried about you.
TT: Dave?
TT: ...
TT: Shit.

You almost kick your computer. Bad idea. Instead, you kick one of the cinder blocks keeping up your improvised desk. Even worse idea. Now you've fucked up and your foot hurts. You sit back in your chair, staring up at the ceiling. You can't even stay mad at Rose for that long, feeling the simmering anger in your stomach turn to chunks of coal, because you fucking knew that was going to happen. You knew how she was going to react, that she was going to poke and prod in that insufferable way, and you still couldn't stop yourself from blabbering on and on.

You are the source of your own god damn misery. It's you.

You huff at your own reference. Maybe you should start a story arc in SBaHJ, get some shitty angsty stuff going that'll really throw your readers for a loop. Get them to start thoris about the mental helth cricis the autreur is going through.

the bllode... wass onmy hansd al alone...

Fuck. Your brain really is just irreparably fried. You can't even wallow in peace without going off on a tangent to avoid having to think at all. You run away—that's all you ever do. Even the fucking loop is just you running away again and again because you don't want the consequences of your own actions to catch up.

There's a knocking at your door, breaking through your thoughts with all the subtlety of a bulldozer. You start upwards in your chair, now-familiar panic welling up again. It's almost irritating in how predictable it's getting—like, fuck, that sure is your heart rate shooting up and your palms getting clammy. Vomit in the trash can already. Mom's pastrami. Sure, you're nervous, just like B-Rabbit, but you look absolutely nowhere near calm and ready.

“Kid,” you hear Bro through the door, “let me in.”

You breathe, wondering if you can actually handle it.

He's giving you an out here. You know he could just bust in and do whatever the hell he's planning—the door isn't locked, and you're sure he knows that—but he's asking you. That's a lot more than anything he's done before.

And. Well. You can't run from everything.

“Not like it's locked,” you say, because you don't know if you could actually tell him to come in like a normal person.

He walks in, closing the door behind him and leaning up against it. You notice he's wearing his cap, like a total dipshit. He crosses his arms, looks at where you're leaning back in your chair. You don't say anything, you just... scoot the chair back so you can face him.

“You wanna talk? Fine,” he says eventually, “let's talk. Mano a mano.”

You grimace at the way he says it, like it's a god damn challenge. Maybe it is. Fuck knows you don't want to draw first blood, though, even if it's going to hurt as all hell if he does.

“Not even gonna give me a starting prompt? Makin' it real hard to do my improv show here, lil' man,” he puts his hand on his hip, raising an eyebrow over his shades. “Alright, guess I'll throw first.”

He stands for a moment, finger tapping against his arm. You feel your jaw clenching.

“What was that thing,” he asks, eventually, “back on the roof?”

You stand up from your chair, way too fucking fast to play it off cool, but he raises his hands before you can ask him what the fuck he means by what you did.

“Woah, there,” he says, “don't mean that thing. I mean the flashstep. Before the shish-kebabing. Wasn't any kinda move I know.”

You cringe at the casual reference. Still, you think back, remember the sun beating down on you, the sweat rolling down your arms as you stood across from him, lungs heaving for air and relief from the warmth enveloping you. The way everything had stopped, for just a moment, letting you sprint right across. You didn't think much of it at the time, taking it as one of those weird experiences you get when everything's happening too fast to keep track of properly.

“Shit, that's like asking a guy to just give up all his cards,” you start, but his eyebrow creeps up over his shades again. “Okay, Jesus. Let a guy breathe. It was like... during the fight, there was this—” you hesitate, trying to find the right words, “it was like everything just stopped. Thought it was some adrenaline shit, you know, feels like everything else is going slower than you and all that, but...”

“Time stop, I'm guessin',” he finishes for you. He takes off his cap, spins it in the air a few times before securing it back on his head and letting out a low whistle. “Neat trick.”

You will deny feeling any sort of weird, fucked up pride at the compliment until the day you die. It does have the corner of your lip twitching, though, which you clamp down on immediately.

“Not like I knew what I was doing, anyway,” you say, keeping your voice carefully non-chalant.

“Your turn.” He knits his fingers together, raising his hands behind his head to lean back against the wall. “Ask me anythin' you like.”

“You ain't exactly the most stable guy,” you say, and cringe at your own words, because not insulting the other party is like, Communication 101, but you barrel onwards, “but you aren't stupid either, so why the fuck...”

Bro doesn't say anything, and you don't know if that's good or bad now, because everything's gone wrong and there's no clear way through. You can't just ignore him and let him ignore you any more. Shit's gone haywire, and you're stuck with trying to make it work.

You barrel onwards.

“Why the fuck did you do that? What was I going to do, when you'd kicked it? After? If you knew what you were doing, then—” you breathe in shakily, run your hand through your hair. You look right at him, let the scowl run across your face.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do when you're dead?”

He stops dead in his tracks, like you've pulled all of his wires out, and he just looks at you. You don't say anything, swallowing thickly around the words that rush to the forefront of your brain. All of them seem wrong, like they'll just set him off even more, but is staying quiet really the better option here?

You end up not having to, because he just about factory resets you when he speaks next. One of his eyebrows quirks up over his shades in the single most assholeish way you've ever seen.

“Really? You think I haven't planned that out? You really think I'm that stupid?”

Your mind crashes right into the brick wall he's just put up, and every single thought that was trying to take control of the tracks perishes in the tragic accident. None of them survive other than the sheer confusion that has been trying to secure its place as the railway baron for the past few hours. Or however the fuck you want to end this metaphor. The point is, you're utterly lost.

“What? What the fuck do you mean by that?” you say eventually, because you have to say something.

“I ain't dead. You don't have ta know.” He neatly stonewalls you, folding his arms.

You lift your shades, rubbing your hand against your eyes because trying to talk to this guy is truly the worst fucking thing you've ever attempted in your life. Blinking against the bright lights, you see the blurry figure of your Bro still for a second before he flashsteps over, and you emphatically do not squeak.

And great, now your heart's back to rabbiting away in your chest, because he's grabbing the hand you're holding your shades in, pulling it away from your face and up over you in a rough motion that has your shoulder joint flaring up with pain, and even though you blink up at him your vision still hasn't adjusted before he steps away again. You barely process it happening, but it leaves you with a sore hand and staring at where Bro's standing with his fists clenched, facing the doorway. You're left on shaky legs, your shades falling to the ground.

Again, the record scratches. It feels like someone's scraping nails across the chalkboard of your brain.

The sun glares at you through the window. You stand up on still-shaking legs. Alright, so something freaked him out bad this time. Maybe you can manage to get out past him this time, because this shit is becoming too much to handle.

You've only just gotten yourself dressed and hyped up to leave when there's a knocking at your door. You barely manage to mumble out a “whuh?” before Bro opens it, as close to panicking as you're ever seen him before—which would just barely register as a slight nervousness to anyone other than you. The index finger on his right hand is tapping at his thigh at around 348 BPM, and your brain stalls for another moment as you register that you just know that.

“Dave. Take off your shades.”

He says it like he's holding himself back from saying something far worse. You swallow through the sudden heaviness in your throat, try to hold back the panic that seems to saturate every pore of your being.

“Okay, dude, Jesus, let a guy breathe here,” you say, holding up a hand that is not shaking. Every other part of you is tensed up, ready to jump at a moment's notice. He doesn't move from where he's standing, thank fuck.

You take them off. He looks you straight in the eyes, his own bright orange hidden by his glasses.

Whatever he sees in them, it makes him stop in that weird way again, every inch of him still like a single frame in a movie.

“Shit,” he says, and then he just. Turns and leaves. No further comment needed, apparently.

What?

What the fuck was that about?

You run out after him, but he's flashstepped up somewhere—maybe the crawlspace? Not that it matters, because right now you just need to know what the hell is going on. You make your way to the bathroom, hands on your shades. You close your eyes before you take them off, letting yourself adjust to the lights through your eyelids. Hesitating, you wonder what he might have seen in them that made him freak out like that.

You open your eyes. Whatever's going to meet you probably can't be any worse than the flashbacks you get whenever you look at Bro, right?

Blinking against the bright lights, you squint in the mirror until your vision finally clears up a little.

Your eyes are red.

Like, not crying your heart out red, even if the whites of your eyes are a bit bloodshot. Your pupils are actual blood red. It looks freaky as hell, especially since they've been pale blues since... well, since forever. Guess that's one of the perks that time travel gets you? You don't really see what the huge deal is, other than making you look like you're a vampire from a really shitty horror movie, what with the pale skin and all, but it must be pretty weird to see someone's eyes just... change color.

You blink, your vision shifting for a moment, and now there's a bright red string floating in mid-air and fading into nothing at the end of it. You follow it back to where it leads, going right into—out of?—where your heart is. There's a beat where you just look at it, the light not even hurting your normally photosensitive eyes, and you hesitantly reach up to touch it.

When you do, you can feel your teeth inhabiting the same exact space as... your teeth. There's no other way to explain the way you've been overlaid on yourself, over and over, the shock leaving you reeling and going into overload as you—

You remember.

Yeah, no, you're absolutely going to freak out about this.

You turn, making a beeline straight to your room, trying to get out of the bathroom, where you're pretty fucking sure Bro's killed himself more than once, heartbeat echoing through every nerve. The record scratch starting in your heels catches up to you before you get there.

You can feel the way your body lurches, sight doubling, then tripling over itself, blood in the sink, body hanging from the fan, and something—

changes.

And you can see the knot that's been tied around your core, red thread spinning into itself over and over until the tangle becomes a solid twisting ball, loose ends spanning the entirety of the apartment. It looks like one of those weird-ass art installations, with red strings hanging from every surface and fraying into nothing.

You have the very distinct feeling that you aren't in control any more.

Which is weird, because you didn't think you had control over much of anything, but apparently what little you did have has just been wrested right from your hands. Even as you try to hold on to it as tight as possible, curling into yourself, you feel it slip with every second that passes.

You wake up, eyes hurting from the bright light streaming into your room.

You get dressed quickly—you don't want to spend a single fucking moment longer than necessary in this apartment, you need to get out. Shades secured on your face, you grab your backpack and whatever change you have stashed away in various spots around your room. It doesn't amount to much, but it should be enough to get by the next day or two. You stuff whatever drinks and food you've got in your closet in your backpack, too—being prepared never hurt anyone.

When you move to get out of the apartment, though, you stop. There's someone talking outside of the door.

It isn't Bro.

Or, rather, it sounds like him if you had put his voice through about twenty different vocal effects. And scrubbed his drawl almost completely off. It's freaky as all hell.

“—and clearly something's gone off the rails, or else I wouldn't be here and not in your brain like I'm supposed to be,” the voice says, scratchy and metallic, slight electronic warbling emphasizing its words every so often.

There's no response from your Bro, or at least, none that isn't blocked by the door you're sitting right up to hear what's going on.

“I can't hear jack, or indeed shit, if you just think at me,” the voice says, tetchier than you've ever heard Bro be openly.

“Ain't how it normally is,” Bro says, though you barely catch it.

“Oh really? Someone, please, give this man a medal for his astute observational skills.”

You don't quite make out what Bro responds with, hissing his words out too low for you to hear, just the words “sayin'” and “kid”.

“So just don't say anything. Let my velvet words wash over you like a soft electronic blanket putting you right to bed. Which is to say, of course, right to actually messaging the one person that we both know is our best chance of getting us out of this fucking mess,” the voice rambles, words monotone.

“Not gonna happen,” Bro says, steel in his voice.

Okay, there's clearly something going on out there. As far as you know, no one else has been in the apartment since this started, and with what the voice said earlier... maybe you might actually finally get some answers? You brace yourself, breathing in deep, and open the door. Whatever's out there can't be that bad.

You blink. It might not be that bad, but you've clearly failed to account for the fact it might be really fucking weird.

Bro is sitting on the futon, phone in his hands.

Bro is also hovering in midair, his arms folded across his chest. This one's got nothing behind his shades, though, glass solid black except for the red light flashing through where his eyes should be. He's... basically just Bro as a robot, from what you can see.

They're both looking straight at where you're peeking out from behind the door.

“So, uh,” you manage, cool as a fucking cucumber and without a single hint of panic in your voice, “who's the cyborg-looking guy?”

The red light in Robo-Bro's shades fades in and out, like he's blinking. Neither of them says anything, and you shift your weight nervously.

“Fuck,” Bro says eventually, clear and concise.