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Iron Man 103 (1977) by Bill Mantlo & George Tuska

also I've gotten into the part of my Undertale AU rp that the mods have been hunting me for sport over (been parking my drafts for it in a mod copy of the lore doc)

every day, this one rper has been a gift for unitentionally delivering us a foil to the "server mascot" I play as

Uto: was a somewhere, became a something

Ridwan: was a something, became a somewhere

and they'd both be the "baby sibling," depending on how you count it. Uto has been a person for less time than Ridwan, but Ridwan has been a god for less time than Uto.

both of them: powers like White Diamond, backstories like Pink Diamond

they are doomed toxic found family siblings (but make them gods, too, and both of them orphans by their own mistakes)

and Uto has been digging up all of Ridwan's trauma, right in front of the first new friend Ridwan's tried opening up about being a god to, to provoke this boss-on-boss fight

they're the inverse of Flowey (born a plant, became a monster)

the reason they don't like talking about their godhood is because

they weren't even supposed to be sentient. no one expected them to turn from a literal violet into a literal baby,

no one knew what they could do, including themself. most of their capabilities, they've been learning by accident, which is how they accidentally orphaned themself under as-of-yet-unspoiled circumstances.

they're like evil found family toxic doomed siblings because Uto barged into this like the elder sibling who knows exactly how to needle the baby sibling whose room they just snooped through to humiliate them in front of their visiting friend in the most personal ways possible.

and now Ridwan is crashing out.

and by crashing out, I mean Uto just tried to fuse with them and Ridwan reacted so badly, trying to get rid of him, that they executed a fork bomb on themself and reopened an injury they'd sustained back at the annual Banquet when Uto led a data-corrupting world-eater back.

so the moodboard for this whole fight is like:

oh yeah and, it's not just that Uto invaded Ridwan's privacy, one of the reasons the trauma was so traumatic is they're still grieving and no one else remembers who there'd be to grieve over it's only been a year orphaned by their own doing, by accident all they have left are their cloth mother, whose eyes and voice are gone too, and a sentient roomba

and! the guest, the aforementioned friend, he goes by Midas because Greek mythology's his special interest, and Uto outed to him the "how" of what Ridwan did by pointedly mentioning pomegranate seeds.

Ridwan is functionally a gamemaker program, they can rewrite themself to be anything or spawn as anything or despawn anything of theirs, and up until that incident, Ridwan did not know there was a loophole around them only being able to use their powers on themself.

and between this and only two prior meetings, the first being a stern warning after he committed arson, Steve Jightmare is becoming the dad who said he didn't want a cat.

also Uto is now in a panic because mama showed up (Star Sugarplum and Cherry Tartale, two of Ridwan's employees, just arrived for a wellness check.

Cherry had adopted Uto as her son, which means a lot to Uto because he's not used to being viewed as a person any more than he's used to being a person.

he looks the same age as Ridwan, maybe college-age, but he's only been a person for 10 years

Ridwan is the age they look, but that's still a very short time in god years, esp after being raised by mortal unplanned parents with maybe one experienced parent and an elder sibling or two among them, plus the hired nanny– the only mother they ever had.

Uto's new mom has house fire trauma

the mansion, which is also Ridwan, is still burning

so Uto finally took the hint before Ridwan finished turning his attempted fusion against him drag them into a rift together and kill them both.

...and now... now it's time for Ridwan to patch themself up and reckon with just how deeply this hurt/violated them.

Carol Ann Duffy

It was late September. I’d just poured a glass of wine, begun to unwind, while the vegetables cooked. The kitchen filled with the smell of itself, relaxed, its steamy breath gently blanching the windows. So I opened one, then with my fingers wiped the other’s glass like a brow. He was standing under the pear tree snapping a twig.

Now the garden was long and the visibility poor, the way the dark of the ground seems to drink the light of the sky, but that twig in his hand was gold. And then he plucked a pear from a branch. – we grew Fondante d’Automne – and it sat in his palm, like a lightbulb. On. I thought to myself, Is he putting fairy lights in the tree?

He came into the house. The doorknobs gleamed. He drew the blinds. You know the mind; I thought of the Field of the Cloth of Gold and of Miss Macready. He sat in that chair like a king on a burnished throne. The look on his face was strange, wild, vain. I said, What in the name of God is going on? He started to laugh.

I served up the meal. For starters, corn on the cob. Within seconds he was spitting out the teeth of the rich. He toyed with his spoon, then mine, then with the knives, the forks. He asked where was the wine. I poured with a shaking hand, a fragrant, bone-dry white from Italy, then watched as he picked up the glass, goblet, golden chalice, drank.

It was then that I started to scream. He sank to his knees. After we’d both calmed down, I finished the wine on my own, hearing him out. I made him sit on the other side of the room and keep his hands to himself. I locked the cat in the cellar. I moved the phone. The toilet I didn’t mind. I couldn’t believe my ears:

how he’d had a wish. Look, we all have wishes; granted. But who has wishes granted? Him. Do you know about gold? It feeds no one; aurum, soft, untarnishable; slakes no thirst. He tried to light a cigarette; I gazed, entranced, as the blue flame played on its luteous stem. At least, I said, you’ll be able to give up smoking for good.

Separate beds. in fact, I put a chair against my door, near petrified. He was below, turning the spare room into the tomb of Tutankhamun. You see, we were passionate then, in those halcyon days; unwrapping each other, rapidly, like presents, fast food. But now I feared his honeyed embrace, the kiss that would turn my lips to a work of art.

And who, when it comes to the crunch, can live with a heart of gold? That night, I dreamt I bore his child, its perfect ore limbs, its little tongue like a precious latch, its amber eyes holding their pupils like flies. My dream milk burned in my breasts. I woke to the streaming sun.

So he had to move out. We’d a caravan in the wilds, in a glade of its own. I drove him up under the cover of dark. He sat in the back. And then I came home, the woman who married the fool who wished for gold. At first, I visited, odd times, parking the car a good way off, then walking.

You knew you were getting close. Golden trout on the grass. One day, a hare hung from a larch, a beautiful lemon mistake. And then his footprints, glistening next to the river’s path. He was thin, delirious; hearing, he said, the music of Pan from the woods. Listen. That was the last straw.

Selfship Render ✨

TVBBTT (The Violet Banquet But There's Trauma)