TinkerBlunder

Every night, he distracts himself from the heinous sight by applying his face mask before sinking into a boiling bath of a blot-eliminating solution. He sings to himself in an effort to ignore the trudge of blot melting off of his skin, sitting long enough till his fingers prune and the water turns ink-jet black. He drains the bath with blind precision. It never gets easier, peeking one eye open and hoping there will be no traces left.

He can never catch a break. The day he slacks off is the day his ugliness is laid bare for the world to see, to be picked apart by fans and critics alike. No rest for the wicked, especially not for one as vile, hideous, and monstrous as—

“I brought you some apple juice.” His own voice sounded foreign to him. That day he confronted Neige backstage, all he saw was red. “By all means. Drink up.”

Was he truly capable of a villainy so cruel? When all inhibitions were thrown out the window, was this his true self unbound and unleashed?

Vil can’t help but check his Magicam for some kind of reassurance, some kind of sign or surprise that would prove him wrong. Even with his phone swiftly discarded, he needn’t look far to find one who is eager to please, one eager traitorous huntsman.

It took weeks of cold distance for Vil to truly forgive Rook. That unrelenting smile of his almost seemed to mock him. What once he called a back-handed compliment—a particular brand of praise Rook was unfortunately fond of—got under Vil’s skin like no other, literally and figuratively.

🏹 “Such cruel and exacting beauty befits an actor of your caliber, Beau Vil.”

To bear the moniker of villainy, Vil decided, was a fate worse than death.

Won’t somebody tell him he’s capable of so much more?

Whereas Vil lamented the crumbling walls he built so high and sturdy to conceal his deepest, darkest flaw, you saw a different problem entirely. Was Vil willing to accept this ugly part of him to be as essential and valuable as the defenses he built around it?

Your first attempt at consoling Vil was…less than stellar. Reassurances like ‘you’re still young’, ‘your time will come’, and the like fell on deaf ears, as hollow as cored apple. But much like the eager huntsman, you persisted.

“Villains can be heroes, too," you said. "Back home, they’re even more popular and memorable than—”

“That’s not how it works,” he snapped.

It’s really, really hard to convince Vil of something once he’s set his mind to it, and when he gets stubborn, you get competitive.

“Telling you what you want to hear won’t fix anything,” you snapped back.

It is so easy to fall into an argument spiral with Vil; so much so you’d think you’re both addicted to it—the infinite chase, an endless debate. No wonder he was a magnet to fiery spirits like Rook, Leona, and even the Shroud brothers to some extent.

You saw some light return to his eyes when you ran through examples of actors and movies, but that still wasn’t enough to expel the darkness lying dormant within his psyche. They may have gotten out, but that was no guarantee for him.

“Since when did Vil Schoenheit care about guarantees in life?" you asked. "Go wild, break the mold, invent a new genre unlike anything Twisted Wonderland had already seen.”

“Of course you can say that with ease. You’ve no skin in the game, nothing to lose, no money or time or effort invested.”

You had one last, foolish resort. A risky one, akin to poking a bear, or more accurately, a high-strung ram.

“…I bet you won’t because you’re scared.”

Slowly, his eyes trace your figure with lethal intensity. “Excuse me?”

“I get it,” you continue, feigning nonchalance. “You can’t. It’s too hard to take the first step, too much work to get where you want, too slow to see meaningful change.”

“Can’t, you say?” There it is. The true nature of Vil’s ugliness, the fire in his belly he denied for so long—spite. “Watch me.”

🔥 Idia Shroud

🎶 Now playing Amongst the Low and Empty by Signs Of The Swarm

Rising from the flames Pain sharpened my blade Unmasked, unchained I will never feel the same

alt rec: To The Hellfire by Lorna Shore

When Idia gets really invested in a game, he forgets he has a spine that needs to be stretched.

Idia loves cracking his joints, one of the most satisfying sounds on the planet, whether its his back, his knuckles, his ankles. He’s cracking bones he didn’t know exist. Man’s got clickity-clackity bones, okay? Unfortunately, now it’s accompanied by this awful, nasty squelch from blot bubbles built up in-between his joints. So much for passively burning blot…

On the bright side, he’s been more focused than ever on his personal projects. On the not-so bright side, it is at the cost of his health—physical, mental, emotional. It’s all too much to think about when all he wants to do is build ridiculous, game-breaking mods and test out augmented gear that Ortho—that *the android he named Ortho—*requested.

Since his overblot, Idia has had to recalibrate his entire worldview.

He misses the underworld sometimes. The quietude it brought him, the peace that accompanied total surrender of his mental faculties. No duty or responsibility, no thinking, just a speck in the abyss, surrounded by forlorn phantoms like him, reunited with his little brother—his actual little brother.

When memories of that time crawl to the surface, Idia loses interest in whatever he’s doing, whether it be a raid in his favorite MMO or mid-coding new gear for Orth—for the android that would replace his brother Ortho.

Suffice it to say, it’s been an uphill battle for the Shroud brothers.

They may be on good terms now, but it didn’t start out that way. There was definitely a steep learning curve when Idia first booted up this machine and saw the eyes of his baby brother the android who bears his baby brother’s name open again for the first time.

Since his inception, android Ortho has been entrusted with tracking Idia’s self-care routine, a role he is more than happy to fulfill.

“Big brother, it is time for lunch. I made your favorite!”

For months, Idia tweaked and adjusted android Ortho’s training model, but nothing ever felt right. Too formal, not formal enough, too autonomous, not autonomous enough, too pedantic, too sycophantic, too robotic—

What was he thinking?

The short answer is he wasn’t thinking; he was grieving, and grief made people irrational.

“Big brother, it’s been 30 minutes. Time to stand up!”

“Sigh… do I have to?”

Idia isn’t athletic in any sense of the word, but he’ll bust a move to a rhythm game with his idol group music on it. Just put him in front of a dance machine—within the confines of his room, of course. The perfect means for an otaku to meet his exercise quota and crack those creaky bones. He’s even hooked up his rig with auto-generated beatmaps to keep things fresh.

“Big brother, you have 3 unread messages from Mother. Initiate read aloud?”

In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t a good idea at all.

“Big brother, what’s wrong?”

“Stop it,” Idia spat. “You’re not my brother, and never will be.”

He was never meant to say it out loud, no matter how much it hurt to keep it in. Unlucky as he was, it was bound to come out.

Android Ortho blinks, startled but not offended. “Shall I update your preferences, then?”

Idia flinches, curls inwards and cracks his knuckles, ignoring that awful squelch. “…No.”

The first time android Ortho declared sentience, Idia considered shutting him down.

What did it mean for an android you built to suddenly profess it had gained a soul?

Idia didn’t believe him at first, rationalizing it as a form of self-preservation evolved from the android’s training model. But he couldn’t do it, couldn’t pull the plug on his magnum opus. Not when his baby brother’s eyes looked up at him—big, round, and curious. Innocent, naive, taken too soon from the surface world. He couldn’t do it again.

In the end, Idia was too good at what he does, and as a result, made android Ortho too convincing.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” Idia mumbles, hiding under his hood.

“I’m not upset. Your heartbeat is racing, though. Initiating relaxation protocol…”

How could Idia allow himself to rest when it meant sitting with his thoughts and facing the consequences of his actions? When it meant acknowledging android Ortho as a frankenstein’s monster of the brother he lost. Immersion ruined, fantasy shattered, fourth wall demolished. This ARG he built around his life, disintegrated.

The very notion that he created life was terrifying, paralyzing. This being was his responsibility now…forever. No pre-saved checkpoint, no undo button.

“My sensors detect spikes of energy. Is it excitement or fear?”

“…Both,” says Idia.

“I’m afraid that lies outside of my dataset. Help me understand.”

Was it wrong to immortalize the memory of his late brother in a hunk of metal? Was it wrong to call this machine family? What did it mean to create life from a place of grief, anger, loneliness?

With no one to divulge these fears to, Idia despaired. It wasn’t exactly the smoothest conversation starter, not with his peers or dormmates or clubmates—Azul certainly didn’t get it—and as for his parents…they’re too busy with important work for him to impose upon their time.

Well…he did have one person he could always vent to—Muscle Red.

“Family is what you make of it. My eldest really loves his digital pet. My little one speaks to woodland creatures in the forest. Are they any less family than the parents who birthed them?”

If Lady Luck is real, then Idia thanks her every day for connecting him with someone as cool and wise as he. It takes a while for the message to sink in, and lots of found family animanga.

Whereas Idia sees stagnation, you see evolution. Idia needs Ortho just as much as Ortho needs Idia. Two halves of a whole, a family curse that binds them to each other, and a corrupt system in need of a hard reset. There was an (arguably) bigger issue at hand, as well. If the future is already set in stone for him, what's there left to look forward to?

There wasn’t much you knew about the world of Twisted Wonderland, but you managed to impress Idia with your fandom knowledge and internet lingo. He even called you half decent at competitive games (his ego can only offer so much praise, this is high praise from a tryhard like him).

At the crack of dawn, Idia’s phone pings three times in quick succession.

💬🦐  Premo Documentary release date confirmed!!! Let’s gooooo 💬🦐 Manifesting luck for VIP tickets 💬🦐 WDYM THEY ALREADY SOLD OUT IT’S BEEN 3 MINS

As long as there is art in the world—video game releases, movie soundtracks, music tours, and whatever else comes next, Idia still wants to be part of that world, something he can't have access to in the underworld.

“Score!” Ortho cheered. “Three tickets secured, and right before they sold out. When it comes to speed, human reaction speed doesn’t stand a chance against us.”

“GG, lil bro.” Idia smiled. Then, he did the math. “Why three?”

“A souvenir for big brother Ortho.”

“O-oh? You know he can’t leave tartarus, right?”

“Then, we’ll bring the watch party to him!”

“That’s not...” A logical glitch? Ah well, it didn’t matter to anymore. “You’re right. Let’s do it.”

He needn’t interfere with android Ortho’s algorithm when the little guy was more than capable of evolution on his own, eager to see what else he’ll think up next.

(Discreetly, Idia hands you the third ticket, since you whined about missing out. He liked having you as an IRL fandom friend, though he’d never admit that out loud.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He’s not one to ignore the signs. So he invests in good quality tears. Only when he’s rubbing his eyes does he notice blot stains on his knuckles. Surely it’s just the ink of his pen, right? …Right?

Nothing made Azul feel on top of the world quite like the sight of an overly confident student signing away his rights. With Floyd and Jade guarding his blindspots, he was untouchable.

But one day, even his arms and ears will leave him, and the thought of sleeping soundly one night and waking up the next day betrayed was enough to send him spiraling.

With no hope of falling asleep, he schemes late into the night, inkblot tears ruining his paperwork and forcing him to redo everything over and over again. It’s no wonder he wakes up grouchy and unfocused.

Losing his contracts was a blow more devastating than losing all eight of his limbs at once, leaving him vulnerable to the predators he’s been poking from a safe distance. Except there is no safe distance when you sit at the bottom of NRC’s food chain.

It’s hard to look forward to tomorrow when today takes so much energy out of him, preferring to bask in the quiet hours after another day survived. Try as he might to reach for the surface, no amount of sunrises past could ever convince him that the sun will shine again tomorrow. One day, he’ll rope Malleus into a contract so he can stop time at the peak of his power, if such a peak will ever satisfy him.

Darkness is his true home—safe, reliable, all-encompassing. In the safety of his octopot, no light can deceive him with false hope, no contract can be stolen, no trust can be broken.

Whereas the rest of the student body see a power-hungry, money-greedy, misguided genius, you see three bleeding hearts under lock and key. While you’re no medical expert, you did hear that a good shock to the heart can reset an erratic rhythm and gentle binds around said heart can reduce the bleeding.

“You don’t always need power over others to feel safe. Sometimes you just need a really big hug,” you say.

“And lots of money,” he adds.

“No-!”

Talk is cheap in Azul’s world, so you opt for the next best thing—body language.

“Hey Floyd, when’s the last time you gave Azul a big ol’ squeeze?” you ask during his shift.

“Hnn…? Not since middle school. He’s not as round and squishy anymore.”

“Does he have to be?”

“…Good point. Let’s go.”

One Ambush Later…

“Did you have to yell ‘OCTY’ when you jumped out of my vault?!”

“Gyeh heh. For old times’ sake,” says Floyd, grinning from ear to ear.

Under your combined weight, Azul can’t run from your overflowing love and affection. He can’t deny it, either.

“If you won’t rest, we’ll just hafta knock ya out,” declares Floyd.

“This is violating EVERY code of student conduct,” argues Azul.

“And?” / “Your point?”

“Oya,” says Jade from the office entrance. “Why wasn’t I invited?”

“Get over here!” / “Get them off me!”

🐍 Jamil Viper

🎶 Now playing Yakusai by Knosis

Enlightening intrusive thoughts Sneak out the back of my head Controlling me, controlling me I'm broken in silence

When Jamil cooks for one of Kalim’s party, the plethora of spices really open up his sinuses.

It gets annoying sometimes, but he’s learned to cope with it. What he isn’t used to, is blot dripping from his nostrils, especially after a particularly ridiculous request from Kalim. He’s always wearing masks, saying he’s caught a flu. He makes sure to throw them in a separate bin, far from Kalim’s clumsy gaze.

But lady luck is never on his side. Is there anything worse than watching Kalim flail about in distress, worried sick for Jamil’s health while unable to do anything useful about it?

In those moments, rather than comforted, Jamil feels helpless. As the self-proclaimed smartest man in his dorm, no one could truly understand his pain. No one could even come close. He doesn’t ask for help for the simple fact that no one can help him, even if they really, truly, bottom-of-their-heart wanted to.

And so he handles it in the best way he knew how—alone.

When the party noise dies down, and the guests have gone home, Jamil’s real break begins. You stay back to help him clean up, putting on low-energy music like Lo-fi or RnB. He may not vocalize his appreciation, for fear of jinxing this random stroke of good luck, but it shows in his half-hearted attempts to deny your help.

“You should go home. It’s getting late," he says.

You clutch your broom protectively. “And take away MY cleaning rights? Nah, you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“I’m used to it. In fact, I prefer it this way.”

“Then your preferences need an update,” you say, barring his way to the sink. “I’m on dish duty.”

“Why are you being so difficult?”

“I could say the same to you.”

He sighs, too exhausted to fight back. “No shortcuts or tricks, okay? I need them spotless.”

“Aye, aye, Jamjam!”

“Don’t call me that.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Blot accumulates in his lungs and clogs his windpipe. The terribly familiar sight and feel of blot spilling out of his system makes him spiral. No one can find out. What will they think of him if he can’t keep it in? He promised to do better, to be better.

Before Trey could offer any help, Riddle disposes of the evidence. He carries a handkerchief and an extra uniform with him at all times. He is studying up on blot-cleansing potions, sitting in more secluded parts of the library, and patrolling his dorm’s hallways less often—opting instead to delegate that task to one of his willing subjects.

It sickens him, chocks him out of his duties. For him, no matter how bad it gets, leaving an Unbirthday Party is unacceptable and unheard of for him—he would only raise suspicion. So he waits it out, even if it means swallowing down thick blobs of bitter blot. Even if it burns down his esophagus like acid. It would be poor form to worry others over what should be his responsibility.

Whereas he sees a problem to be fixed, you see a geyser of emotions in need of an outlet. His anger is his shield, inherited from an even fiercer knight. So you let him spill, let him yell and vent and lecture you about everything you're doing wrong, then you hold still when the guilt inevitably eats him up inside. You endure the outrage; you confront it, not him.

“Let’s try that again. Shall we?” you say.

“Why aren’t you mad at me?” he asks, throat hoarse from yelling, heart heavy with shame.

You sort the books he sent flying around the table. “Consider it a rule I follow, to accept my friends at their best and worst equally.”

He steps in to help, avoiding eye contact. “And every state in between?”

“Every single one. Show me all of you. No shame, no guilt.”

🦁 Leona Kingscholar

🎶 Now playing FUHAI by Knosis

Everybody knows and nobody knows What you do to mе, what you do to them What I do to you, you will do it right back

When Leona wakes, the aftertaste of blot lingers in his mouth.

Since his Overblot, Leona ups his dental hygiene and expands his arsenal of products. Even after brushing his teeth twice, plus floss, plus mouthwash, it came right back again the next morning.

He develops a habit of licking his fangs clean, only to gag at the flavor that meets his tongue. He’s quieter at Spelldrive practice, he covers his mouth when he yawns, he ends conflicts between dormmates through glares and non-verbal threats.

Ruggie knows not to ask—he wouldn’t want to risk getting sanded again. Instead, he leaves behind strong mints and gums on Leona’s nightstand. Leona may scold him for it, but he’s going to take them anyway, just to get through the day.

Nothing makes it worse than encountering the people he loathes most around campus. He avoids housewarden meetings, as he considers Malleus his primary source of headaches and blot build-up, despite the Diasomnia housewarden having a track record of no-show. Leona isn’t taking chances.

Malleus isn’t the only reason though, as Vil and Azul earned the titles of secondary and tertiary headaches, respectively. In response, Ruggie attends those meetings on his behalf more often than not.

Plus, he skips class to avoid Rook at all costs. In general, wherever he finds other third-years, he’s out, leading him back to his own dorm, the last safe haven from the constant memory of his own failures.

He thought he could avoid the stresses of home by staying at NRC as long as he could, but now it’s proven to be another place he can’t wait to escape.

Where everyone else sees entitlement, you see a deeply scarred ego. So, you offer a bit of confidence rehab through his favorite activity—chess. When it’s just the two of you and your tiny wooden armies, a plate of lamb chops, and the soothing splashes of Savanaclaw’s waterfall, Leona’s able to focus on what he can control in his life.

“Why haven’t you given up yet?” He says between moves. “Forget it. I’m a lost cause.”

You place a piece forward. “Because I’ve seen the side of you that wants to be seen. You can stop pretending it doesn’t exist.”

“Then stop looking. Don’t waste your time, or mine.”

“If it was truly time wasted, I wouldn’t be beating you right now. Checkmate.”

“Tch.” He scans the board in case you’re bluffing. Then he scoffs, donning his first smile all week. “Your first win in fifteen rounds, congrats. Don’t get cocky now. It won’t happen again.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~