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226 lines
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<title>The Homestuck Epilogues: Meat - Chapter 13</title>
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<div id='s13'></div>
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<div>
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<h1>Chapter 13</h1>
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<div class="o-story_text o_epilogue type-rg type-sm line-caption line-copy pad-x-0 pad-x-lg pad-b-lg">
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<p class="Command">> Be John again.</p>
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<p class="no-indent">It seems as if you’re attempting to be John
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again, with the expectation that we might spend a little more
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quality time with him in his cubicle of misery and self-loathing.
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You guessed we might really start to unpack his depression issues.
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Get to the bottom of all that. Well, nice try. John can’t be here
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right now, because he’s stuck somewhere in the harrowing nexus
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between canon, post-canon, non-canon, outside canon, and fanon. He
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also can’t be here right now because, for the time being, we’re
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done wasting our breath on such a sad loser. It’s well overdue for
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the true hero of this tale to take center stage.</p>
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<p class="Command">> Be Vriska.</p>
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<p class="no-indent">Lord English stands before you in all his
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time-eating, universe-ending glory. You rode in here like a total
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badass, and now you’re presiding over a whole host of ghosts ready
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to throw themselves once more into the maw of this final battle.
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You know that this isn’t your battle to win, but you are definitely
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the sign of the tide turning. Hell, you ARE the tide. This whole
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thing would have been pretty dismal if you hadn’t shown up with the
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treasure chest containing the ultimate weapon, not to mention your
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flawless defeat of an obstructionist, hectoring, orange man, who
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for reasons you cannot begin to comprehend seemed to be obsessed
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with you.</p>
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<p>You have already executed what is probably the most important
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tactical maneuver ever performed by a hero in the history of
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heroism: you deployed the white, house-shaped juju from the red
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chest. It grew to an enormous size, slammed down on whatever was
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passing for the floor in this esoteric battle environment, and a
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door materialized on its surface. You now stand off to the side
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looking especially pleased with yourself, waiting for the legendary
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weapon to unload itself toward the hulking tyrant.</p>
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<p>You’ve now got two bitches of either gender at your side: your
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main girl Meenah, who you stole from that embarrassing past version
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of yourself that you owned so hard you bet she’s probably
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<em>still</em> crying. And Tavros. Not just any random ghost copy
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of Tavros, of which there appear to be thousands. <em>Your</em>
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Tavros, specifically, who’s been pathetically trailing after you
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like a lost barkbeast since you showed up.</p>
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<p>You’d be hard-pressed to describe what’s happening right now. If
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they sent a poet, maybe he’d do better job of it. But they sent
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someone who’s actually <em>useful</em> instead, so you’ll give it a
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shot. It looks to you like the complete obliteration of space and
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time, the end of all things, the disintegration of literally
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thousands of ghosts. And no doubt your admirers out there would
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love it if you described it all in painstaking detail, but you’re
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not an executionist. You just call it like you see it, and what
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you’re seeing right now is pretty awesome.</p>
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<p class="Command">> Observe Lord English.</p>
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<p class="no-indent">Kind of an overworked character design, you
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think to yourself. If someone showed you a drawing like this on
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their FLARP sheet you’d probably be obligated to immediately kick
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their ass. There’s a lot going on, from his vein-popping muscles to
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his eight-ball eyes to his pirate leg and his ostentatiously
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bright, gold pimp cane. Years ago, you brutally criticized Terezi
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for adding a dragon-head staff to her Redglare cosplay. The
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argument that ensued was so bad she didn’t talk to you for an
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entire week. Now that you’re seeing this, well... you wouldn’t
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apologize to her, <em>o8viously</em>, but in retrospect maybe her
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accessorizing wasn’t so bad. At least she understood the basics of
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having a simplified silhouette.</p>
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<div class="chat type-rg type-hs-small">
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<p class="feferi">MEENAH: im goin back fin</p>
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<p class="feferi">MEENAH: you comin vris</p>
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<p class="vriska">VRISKA: Of course!!!!!!!!</p>
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<p class="vriska">VRISKA: But give me a minute.</p>
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<p class="vriska">VRISKA: I want to SEE.</p>
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</div>
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<p class="no-indent">Meenah gives you a grin and a salute and
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leaves you to it. This is what you always felt you were destined
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for, somehow. Standing at the end of the universe and seeing how it
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all goes down. Tavros is clinging to your arm like a little
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crybaby, while crying, you assume, and probably soiling his dumb
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little pair of shorts. But not you. You’re fearless. Your eyes are
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so wide that it feels like you’re eating all the light through
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them. That’s what you are, after all. <em>The Thief of Light</em>.
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You crane back your neck and:</p>
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<p class="Command">> Watch Lord English put a crack in
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reality.</p>
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<p class="no-indent">It’s beautiful. You thought maybe he’d do
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something stupid, like punch the sky with his gross, throbbing
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muscle arm? But all it takes for him to shatter the roof of
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existence is a single, ear-splitting roar. Around him, the ghost
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army scatters. Tavros flinches and hides his face in your shoulder,
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and probably pisses himself again for good measure. But you...</p>
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<p>Get smashed in the head?</p>
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<p>It was so fast and dark you didn’t see it—the shard of
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space-time that split off from above and hurtled toward you. Your
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body rocks back, whiplash fast, and you nearly keel over. You’re
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still standing though, and laughing. That’s what you were doing
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when Lord English put a split in the fabric of reality. You were
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<em>laughing</em>, not crying. It doesn’t hurt at all.</p>
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<div class="chat type-rg type-hs-small">
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<p class="tavros">TAVROS: vRISKA,,, aRE YOU OKAY?</p>
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<p class="vriska">VRISKA: Shhut up!!!!!!!! I’m... I’m</p>
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</div>
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<p class="no-indent">You stagger back and put a hand to the head
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wound. Your eyes spin. All eight of them. It’s not a big deal
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though. Just a scratch. It’s fine fine F8NE.</p>
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<p>Your hand comes away coated in thick blue. Your hair is soaked
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with it all the way down on one side. Why is broken space-time so
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<em>sharp</em>? Like splintered obsidian. Feels like it barely
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grazed you, and yet...</p>
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<p>Everything around you begins to spin, and you’re not sure if...
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you can’t <em>quite</em>...</p>
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<p>A stream of blood begins to leak in under your glasses. Noise
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whirls around you: Lord English losing his shit, ghosts shouting,
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moving, the broken-glass sound of the ceiling of space splitting
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into hundreds of shards of potentiality. There’s a hum beneath all
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of it, a deep, dark reverb, a black hole sucking everything into
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the dark maw of infinity. You wipe your bloody hand on the leg of
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your jeans and sneer with rage. You won’t go down so easily.</p>
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<p>Tavros tries to steady you, but you slap his hand away.</p>
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<div class="chat type-rg type-hs-small">
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<p class="vriska">VRISKA: Fuck 8ff!!!!!!!!</p>
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<p class="tavros">TAVROS: uHHH OKAY, iT LOOKS REALLY,,, kINDA,,,
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eXTREMELY BAD,,,,,,, tHOUGH,</p>
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<p class="vriska">VRISKA: You’re so intolera8le! I... I need
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to........</p>
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<p class="vriska">VRISKA: Tavros, g-go. Find... f8nd Meen8h.</p>
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<p class="tavros">TAVROS: i,</p>
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<p class="vriska">VRISKA: N8W T8VROS!!!!!!!!</p>
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</div>
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<p class="no-indent">Tavros scurries off into the fray to find
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someone less worthless. You try to catch your bearings so that you
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won’t miss a single instant of the battle, but you’re distracted by
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something in the corner of your glasses. Your Trollian alert is
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blinking. There’s a message from Terezi. How long has that been
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there? Hours, days? You suddenly wonder if it’s been years from her
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perspective, waiting for you to respond, given how time moves
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differently out here. Were you too preoccupied with your incredible
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heroic exploits to notice?</p>
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<p>Focus, Serket. This is no time for sentimental thoughts. You
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need to get a grip. Keep your head in the game, keep both feet
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planted firmly... whoops.</p>
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<p>Your feet slip. Without Tavros to keep you steady, you lose
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balance and begin drifting. You try to regain your footing, but you
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realize you aren’t in danger of falling over. That’s not the
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problem. You can’t seem... to get your feet back on the floor? You
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feel light. You’re... floating. You flail your legs, scraping the
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tips of your shoes against the floor, but it’s no use.</p>
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<p>You understand what’s happening. It’s the black hole.</p>
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<p><em>It’s starting to lift you up.</em></p>
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<p>You glance wild-eyed toward the glowing juju. Its four chambers
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and peaked roof are pulsing with the energy of raw imminence. This
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is it! Everything you’ve been waiting for, whatever it is, is about
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to happen. <em>Where’s Meenah?</em> You desperately try to
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stabilize yourself, slow your ascent, anchor yourself back to the
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floor in some way. Any way. But there’s nothing to grab on to.
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There’s blood in your eyes and your depth perception is fucked.
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Your hand goes wide and your fingers close around empty space as
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you reach impotently toward the glowing symbol of everything you
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ever believed you were meant for.</p>
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<p>This can’t be how it goes. As you continue to levitate, gaining
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speed in the direction of the insatiable cosmic body, you can see
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your blood trailing behind you in wet, cerulean blobs. The juju
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glows brighter. You need to see what happens next. You NEED to
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SEEEEEEEE! You’re so frantic, grasping for purchase in the empty
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air, that you aren’t ready for it. Another black shard of
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space-time hurtling through the void. It collides with your chest,
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right at the place where your ribcage connects, and sends you
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spiraling ever faster toward the deep, dark maw of infinity. A
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black hole is something not even a god tier player can survive, you
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suspect. And even if one could, you highly doubt there’d be any
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clawing your way out of its event horizon and back into relevance.
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Not this time. It’s a fate worse than anything you can imagine, and
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as it truly sinks in—what is happening to you, how this is
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<em>ending</em> for you—finally you lose all sense of composure.
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You flail, spin, and flip in helpless little circles like a bloody
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rag doll, and you begin to scream.</p>
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<div class="chat type-rg type-hs-small weight-bold">—</div>
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<p class="Command">> JOHN: Emerge from the juju.</p>
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<p class="no-indent">The first thing you hear is a tiny scream
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getting sucked into oblivion. The voice is familiar, but not as
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familiar as the second thing you hear, which is a
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<em>crack</em>.</p>
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<p>It’s not just a crack in your ears. This crack goes all the way
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down your spine. You almost don’t react to it because it’s so
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familiar. Around you, a cacophony rises up like steam.</p>
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<div class="chat type-rg type-hs-small">
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<p class="dave">DAVE: oh shit</p>
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<p class="dave">DAVE: its really popping off out here</p>
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</div>
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<p class="no-indent">Dave’s voice reminds you that your teammates
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have emerged from the house along with you. You survey the group.
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Everyone is account for. Three confused, frightened teenagers.</p>
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<p>You can’t see anything but big, bright smears all along the
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horizon. You fish the two halves of your broken glasses out of your
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pocket and hold them up to your face. The scene comes into focus:
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the eye of a storm, a black hole so massive it stretches as far as
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you can see. An army of ghosts swirling and screaming, whipping
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around you like leaves in the wind, and at the center of it all is
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Lord English, just like in your dream.</p>
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<p>You can feel it now. The moment reality yawns too wide and snaps
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in half.</p>
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</div>
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</div>
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