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367 lines
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<title>The Homestuck Epilogues: Meat - Chapter 16</title>
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<h1>Chapter 16</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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<div class="chat type-rg type-hs-small">
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<p class="rose">ROSE: When I was a child, I wrote a novel.</p>
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</div>
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<p class="no-indent">Rose is speaking with her eyes closed. She is
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weary, but standing for now, near one of Dirk’s work tables. She
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has both hands resting on the chassis of his recent project,
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Sawtooth 3.1. The energy humming inside its mechanical heart warms
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her palms. Dirk snorts, but in a good-natured sort of way. That’s
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the closest he usually gets to laughing.</p>
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<div class="chat type-rg type-hs-small">
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: Another one of those Lalonde childhood wizard
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fics, I presume?</p>
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</div>
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<p class="no-indent">He leans his elbow on the table and stares at
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her over the rims of his shades. The weight of Dirk’s scrutiny is
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potent. She looks away.</p>
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<div class="chat type-rg type-hs-small">
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<p class="rose">ROSE: Complacency of the Learned.</p>
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: Ah. <em>The</em> wizard fic, then.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: Yes.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: Of course, it was nothing like the polished
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masterpiece penned by the middle-aged version of myself from your
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world.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: Nor did the saga span as many volumes.
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Thirteen-year-old Rose only managed to draft the one, it shames me
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to say.</p>
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: How pathetic.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: I know.</p>
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</div>
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<p class="no-indent">Rose steps back, trailing her fingers over the
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rivets that line Sawtooth 3.1’s chest. Eyes closed again, she
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passes in front of the window. With the sunset behind her she’s a
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shadow ringed in yellow light that turns white at the tips of her
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hair.</p>
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<div class="chat type-rg type-hs-small">
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<p class="rose">ROSE: Though I must say, in defense of Young Rose’s
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literary integrity,</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: Having carefully studied all volumes of the
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elder’s work, and then revisiting my youthful preteen scribbles of
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passion...</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: I observed more power and emotion in the
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single ragged notebook than the full span of the bestselling
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series.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: It’s more raw. It betrays considerably more
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sincerity than my young self was surely ever aware of stitching
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into the prose.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: It <em>meant</em> something.</p>
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: Hmm.</p>
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</div>
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<p class="no-indent">She turns to look at him.</p>
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<div class="chat type-rg type-hs-small">
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<p class="rose">ROSE: For all its plainly evident amateurism as the
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literary product of a child, I’ve come to believe it’s a much
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stronger work standing alone as a single volume, its meaning and
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symbolism potently compressed, and its message shining through more
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nakedly, undisguised by the cleverness of a more seasoned
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writer.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: But the basics are the same as the series
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you’ve read. The plot concerns the machinations of twelve wizard
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children.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: They revolt against the complacency of the
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wise, kind wizards, and go on to become responsible for great
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evils.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: It isn’t their intent to commit atrocities,
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or within their nature to do so originally. They become corrupted
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by an overabundance of knowledge. The kind never meant for the
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mortal mind to grasp.</p>
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: Yeah, this sounds pretty close to my
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recollection of it.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: It certainly wasn’t the most fucked up thing
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I’ve ever written.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: But it was the most... psychologically
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potent? The most personal, easily.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: But the personal aspects to it were all
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telegraphed through allegory and esoteric symbolism.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: I wrote it in what would be best described as
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a fevered haze, as if I were pulling inspiration from beyond
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myself—channeling the story, rather than writing it.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: You could almost call the process...</p>
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</div>
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<p class="no-indent">She runs a hand through her hair, fanning it
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into a halo that is suspended in the air for a moment, trailing
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spiderwebs of gold that dissolve into dust. She’s smirking now,
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just a little.</p>
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<div class="chat type-rg type-hs-small">
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<p class="rose">ROSE: ...en<em>light</em>ened.</p>
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: That sucked.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: Yes.</p>
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: It also sounds like it’s the opposite of what
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was going on?</p>
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: Sounds more like you were trapped in a sort
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of dire creative fugue state causing you to chart your own mental
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profile using metaphor revolving around murderous, omniscient
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children.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: Well, consider the playful pun rescinded.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: Apologies for diminishing your presence with
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my suboptimal health and the toll it has taken on my wordplay.</p>
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: Thanks. It’s been very difficult for me.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: You’ve been a real trouper.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: Anyway, my point is that I’ve long suspected
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my story was a pre-manifestation of my Seer of Light powers. I was
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seeing beyond my universe into another.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: My original thesis was that the children
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represented the twelve trolls who created our universe.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: But over the years, I have come to see how
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malleable any apparent fact of numerological significance can
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be.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: Adaptable, actually. Adaptable to shifting
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circumstance. Changes in setting, stakes, and allied ensembles.</p>
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: Twelve. That’s how many players went through
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the door at the end of our game.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: Exactly.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: My friends and yours, as well as Kanaya,
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Karkat, Terezi, and Calliope.</p>
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</div>
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<p class="no-indent">Dirk settles in against the wall beside Rose,
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shoulder to shoulder. She seems to take some measure of comfort in
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the physical proximity. When she finds herself leaning against
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him—probably without thinking about it, Dirk imagines, because
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neither of them really “do” that—he doesn’t pull away. If it’s her,
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it’s all right. He won’t begrudge her a small weakness now.</p>
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<div class="chat type-rg type-hs-small">
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: You describe this as a fact of numerological
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significance.</p>
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: Which makes it seem you suspect these
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correlations are something less than utterly providential. As if
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there is a part of you holding on to the belief that certain
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figures are coincidental. That their significance and repetition
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smacks of bullshit.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: Do they not smack of bullshit?</p>
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: They smack of a bunch of things, and a bunch
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of other things also happen to smack of bullshit. But the network
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of relations isn’t perfectly traceable, nor can they all be mapped
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on a one-to-one basis. It’s unclear exactly which things are
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smacking, just as it’s unclear that when it comes to bullshit,
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whether or not smacking accurately describes what is being done per
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se.</p>
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</div>
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<p class="no-indent">Rose looks up to Dirk with the ghost of a
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smile that she inherited from him. On her face, its blankness is as
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enigmatic as the Mona Lisa’s.</p>
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<div class="chat type-rg type-hs-small">
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<p class="rose">ROSE: Could it be that it is <em>you</em> who is
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smacking of bullshit, dear father?</p>
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: Nah, I smack of many admirable qualities, as
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well as keen insights.</p>
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</div>
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<p class="no-indent">She doesn’t seem to have another riposte to
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return, but her gaze lingers. She stares into his shades as if
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convinced she could see past them. Dirk allows their eyes to
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meet.</p>
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<div class="chat type-rg type-hs-small">
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: I’m just saying it’s all evidence of a grand
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design. An immortal, metatextual apparatus beyond our ken that we
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can only catch glimpses of when we’re proverbially shitting our
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brains out through our nose.</p>
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: Which both you and I know.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: Which <em>only</em> you and I know,
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apparently.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: Which is precisely my question.</p>
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</div>
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<p class="no-indent">Her gaze drifts towards the ceiling.</p>
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<div class="chat type-rg type-hs-small">
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<p class="rose">ROSE: In my story, all twelve of the disciples fell
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victim to the vagaries of power.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: They were filled with the light of knowledge
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and one by one they succumbed to it, turning insane or evil or,
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most often, both.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: If this is the effect unchecked powers have
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on players living in a post-canon victory state, then why isn’t it
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affecting any of our other friends?</p>
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: Well.</p>
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: I got a few theories.</p>
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</div>
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<p class="no-indent">She shoots him a <span class="Standard-Text CharOverride-14">look.</span></p>
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<p>It’s the kind of look Kanaya gives her sometimes.</p>
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<div class="chat type-rg type-hs-small">
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<p class="rose">ROSE: Only a few?</p>
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: I mean, some of us have stopped using our
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powers completely. Not a whole lot of need for emergency
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resurrections or complex timeline manipulation on a planet that’s
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never had a conflict more serious than a sportsball riot or a
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rumpled hat shortage.</p>
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: But even aside from how often they’re
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used...</p>
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: Some powers don’t lend themselves to the
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infinite expansion of one’s mind, the way ours do.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: I see.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: So what you’re saying is, it’s more a matter
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of one’s aspect than it is whether one’s powers are practiced
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further, or allowed to atrophy.</p>
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: Yep.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: In that case...</p>
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</div>
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<p class="no-indent">Rose sways suddenly.</p>
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<div class="chat type-rg type-hs-small">
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<p class="rose">ROSE: In that case, perhaps Terezi had the right
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idea.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: Getting away from this place, I mean.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: Maybe I was a fool for imagining I could
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settle down here.</p>
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</div>
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<p class="no-indent">She jerks away from the wall in a tortured,
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rag-doll motion, one hand snapping out vainly for something to
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brace herself against. She staggers forward a bit.</p>
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||
<p>Dirk doesn’t reach out to steady her. Anyone else might have had
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the empathetic reflex to do so. Maybe it says something about him
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that he lacks this reflex. And maybe it says something about Rose
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that she prefers it this way. Try as she might to convince herself
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otherwise, through marriage vows and occasional banter about
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adoption with her wife, she is still a solitary creature. She
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gasps, sucks breath down her throat, and squeezes her eyes shut so
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hard that a tear rolls out. She slides back down the wall, sitting
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on the floor to save her energy. She’s mostly composed when she
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raises her head. There’s bitter laughter at the edge of her
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words.</p>
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<div class="chat type-rg type-hs-small">
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||
<p class="rose">ROSE: How... How are you handling this so well?</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: I assumed it was just that feigned Strider
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||
Stoicism, but you seem to be taking this...</p>
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||
<p class="dirk">DIRK: In stride?</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: Ugh.</p>
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: I won’t lie, it’s definitely making me feel
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||
pretty crazy.</p>
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||
</div>
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<p class="no-indent">Dirk stands over her, adjusts his hair,
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crosses his arms. He makes no motion to bother joining her on the
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floor. He looks very together. He says the word “crazy” with the
|
||
same intonation with which he might say “good morning.” It’s hard
|
||
to believe he means it at all.</p>
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||
<div class="chat type-rg type-hs-small">
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||
<p class="dirk">DIRK: But I’ve got more practice at this than you
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||
do. I spent most of my life before the game multitasking my entire
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||
fucking subconscious. I’ve had several times my age on paper to
|
||
contemplate these mysteries.</p>
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: Years of prying open can after can of worms
|
||
filled with answers I don’t like.</p>
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<p class="dirk">DIRK: Cut yourself on the edge more than once and
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you stop getting surprised by all the blood.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: I see.</p>
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||
</div>
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<p class="no-indent">Rose wraps her hands around her upper arms
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like there’s a winter chill rattling through the workshop. She
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shivers.</p>
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||
<div class="chat type-rg type-hs-small">
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||
<p class="rose">ROSE: It’s not the headaches that concern me
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most.</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: In fact, I don’t think it’s the expansion of
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my powers that is causing the headaches, but rather my own
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||
resistance to it.</p>
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||
<p class="rose">ROSE: Sometimes I get this feeling that I could, if
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||
I really wanted to, just let go.</p>
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||
<p class="rose">ROSE: It would be as easy as opening my eyes.</p>
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||
<p class="rose">ROSE: It’s like that feeling you get when you’re
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||
far enough out of a dream to be conscious of it, but not yet
|
||
awake.</p>
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||
<p class="rose">ROSE: I’m caught in the liminal space between
|
||
reality and reverie, where people once believed demons dwelled. But
|
||
the only reason the demon is still sitting on my chest is because I
|
||
refuse to banish it. All it would take is looking directly at
|
||
it.</p>
|
||
<p class="rose">ROSE: I’m forcing myself to stumble through my life
|
||
as a sleepwalker. All this pain and sorrow could go away if I would
|
||
just allow myself to wake up.</p>
|
||
<p class="dirk">DIRK: Then why don’t you?</p>
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<p class="rose">ROSE: Because I’m not sure that the person opening
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||
her eyes will be me.</p>
|
||
</div>
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||
<p class="no-indent">Her voice is lost at sea, swallowed by the
|
||
swell of darkness lurking in her imagination.</p>
|
||
<p>This time, Dirk does reach out to steady her. He kneels in front
|
||
of her, curls a knuckle under her chin, and lifts her face up to
|
||
his level. Then, in a deliberate motion, he pulls off his
|
||
shades.</p>
|
||
<div class="chat type-rg type-hs-small">
|
||
<p class="dirk">DIRK: I understand completely.</p>
|
||
</div>
|
||
<p class="no-indent">Rose’s eyelids flutter, heavy. She meets the
|
||
intensity of his naked gaze aloofly, like she’s not aware this is
|
||
the first time he’s ever let her see it.</p>
|
||
<div class="chat type-rg type-hs-small">
|
||
<p class="rose">ROSE: Hm?</p>
|
||
<p class="dirk">DIRK: I know I sound pretty nonchalant most of the
|
||
time, but actually I’m scared shitless of myself.</p>
|
||
<p class="dirk">DIRK: I’ve always had this uncanny ability to chart
|
||
a course from A to Z and not give a fuck about any of the letters
|
||
in between.</p>
|
||
<p class="dirk">DIRK: I’m not sure anyone should be allowed to have
|
||
that much foresight. Especially a guy like me.</p>
|
||
<p class="rose">ROSE: What upsets me most, I think, is the distance
|
||
this is all putting between me and everyone I know.</p>
|
||
<p class="rose">ROSE: The farther above the board you fly, the
|
||
harder it gets to care about the pieces.</p>
|
||
<p class="dirk">DIRK: I hear you. And personally speaking, things
|
||
usually work out for the best when all of those pieces do exactly
|
||
what I say.</p>
|
||
<p class="dirk">DIRK: So I’m also probably not the kind of guy who
|
||
should get to be right all the time.</p>
|
||
</div>
|
||
<p class="no-indent">Rose laughs softly. She’s not scared of this
|
||
abyss she’s staring into at all. She doesn’t even think to look
|
||
away.</p>
|
||
<div class="chat type-rg type-hs-small">
|
||
<p class="rose">ROSE: There’s really not an inch of humility in
|
||
you, is there.</p>
|
||
<p class="dirk">DIRK: I’ve just spent a lot of time in my own
|
||
head.</p>
|
||
<p class="dirk">DIRK: Maybe absolute self-absorption is the
|
||
inevitable outcome, when the self is all you’ve ever known. When
|
||
you’re <em>drowning</em> in it.</p>
|
||
<p class="dirk">DIRK: I know there’s plenty of things that suck
|
||
about me. No point feigning humility about the things that
|
||
don’t.</p>
|
||
<p class="dirk">DIRK: And yes, I may be a shitty human being,
|
||
but,</p>
|
||
<p class="dirk">DIRK: As a mechanic, I’m off the fucking
|
||
charts.</p>
|
||
</div>
|
||
<p class="no-indent">Rose’s eyes have grown distant, almost
|
||
mirrorlike. Dirk can see himself reflected in her vacant stare.</p>
|
||
<div class="chat type-rg type-hs-small">
|
||
<p class="rose">ROSE: All the pieces in their place.</p>
|
||
<p class="rose">ROSE: The mechanisms all running smoothly.</p>
|
||
</div>
|
||
<p class="no-indent">She says this in a hollow tone. It’s the
|
||
disarming voice a puppeteer ventriloquizes for a marionette. Her
|
||
head falls toward her shoulder slowly. Dirk catches her cheek as
|
||
she slides into sleep. It’s difficult for the untrained ear to spot
|
||
the exact moment in their conversation when the words she was
|
||
saying stopped being hers and started being his. Or maybe they were
|
||
her words. Does it really matter? In many respects, they’re
|
||
basically the same person, aren’t they? Kindred spirits in blood
|
||
and perspective, the puppet masters of the respective games they
|
||
like to believe they’re playing.</p>
|
||
<p class="no-indent dirk">But you already knew that, right?</p>
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