OCT All Stars to the Rescure!
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rating: +22+x

Part 1

All I see is endless darkness…

My mind holds no thought. They all flutter around me like butterflies, if said butterflies were on fire and screeching for help. Darn do I hate butterflies.
The one thought that sticks on my mind is-

Am I blind? Or are my eyes merely closed?
Have I forever lost the joy of watching those fucking butterflies go up in flames?

I try to open my eyes but I feel…. nothing. No change. No entropy.
Am I still a living being, or am I a fading memory of a long lost time.2

Then I see it, the one exception.

It's bright.
And I see it.
And I remember.

Through the white hole in the dark endless void shines a dim light. It illuminates my limp body.
The hole is small.
Then even smaller.
Am I falling?

I am falling.
If there's wind caressing my skin I do not feel it, but I'm falling.
Twisting and turning through the air like a ragdoll in a hurricane. For moments I see the celestial rays of light drawing farther. For moments I see void.
For moments I see my goddam massive scythe twirling besides me.3

I am dead.
If my stone solid lips could crack, I'd smile.

This is the end of my existence, my edgy edgy existence.
A part of me fills with unbridled vitriolic anger, which I'm no stranger to.

I lost.
Me, Willow Deadwood Moriarty, Lost.
And to a fucking pastel fantasy cat girl.

But for the most part I feel joy. More joy than I have ever felt.

It's over, and I accept that.
I’m ready to be forgotten.

The dark hair waving violently in front of my eyes reminds me that I, in fact, have eyes. And hair.
Swirls of colorful streaks churn and meld into a tie die lunacy. And my eyes, one yellow one purple, can only watch. It matters not to me. Not anymore.

My broken wings, which I also have, offer no resistance. Neither do my ragged clothes, or the chains adorning my body all over.
I always found all these things to be an odd design choice, but was my word ever of value anyways?

And then the light reveals my final destination.


Floor made of people?




Hundreds. Thousands. Millions. Stacked on top of each other like dunes of the great sahara.
The spinning of my perception blurs everything into a single mess of cat ears, robotic limbs , crystal swords and many, many more features. All of man’s delirium and madness mixed in a single location of pure sin.
Truly some… questionable choices.

But now I am to join them, the forgotten. And I am to rest.
Finally rest. Finally, no more suffering.

A familiar voice echoes through every corner of the endless desert. Or so I think. If it's inside or outside my head I'm not sure.

“My poor bean noooooo T-T. They didn't deserve this. Your entry was so good tho SweetMoonKid44. You totally deserve the win. Can't wait to see what you do next round. GG.”

I am too tired to feel anger. I'm almost there.
A pair of horns stabs me in the kidney as I join the pile.
And I feel nothing.

Part 2

Has it been decades? centuries?

For some reason it bothers me not.

I’ve been at peace for so long, and I'm happy.
My colors vanished long ago, and I am one with the endless gray. The contrast of dim lights and shadows allows some features to peek through in the distance. Nose? Hand? Beak?
Ask not for it matters no more. We're all just geometry now. Lying limp one on top of the other. Lines, shapes. Strokes of ink on some old sketchbook.

And I’m happy.

I’m happy that I don't have to think anymore. Time washes over me without leaving any marks, not anymore. The only moments of consciousness I have to endure are when yet another hole rips the fabric of the endless void. The one I stare at for eternity.

For a moment I am me, I am back. And I feel anger. The spotlight on my expression wont let me lie.

That’s when someone else drops through the sky until they meet the stone cold floor. The hole then heals itself, and back to happiness it is.

I see them, sometimes they come alone, sometimes in waves.
Robed mages with scarfs of green, blue, yellow and red.
Skinny boys in suits with handsome smiles, always similar but not quite the same.
A green pony with a weed leaf sticker on its ass.

Down here they are all the same.
God bless this heaven we reside in.

I stare at my new neighbor approaching from above, his single glowing blue eye burning against the dark like a flare of some poor soul asking for rescue. It's dimmer, dimmer, gone.
The spotlight is also dimming once again, slumber time it is.


Part 3

Back at it we are. Light reflects off my eyes as I stare towards the end of the universe. But they are not my eyes, at least not how I remember them. A pair of modest blue irises locked towards the sky.

I am no longer the one I used to be.
My name, I swear it was different.
My wings, I cannot see them.
My heart, it softens.

And I don't feel anger. Nostalgia at best, about who I used to be. About who I needed to first be in order to become who I now am.

The lights, they keep coming. But they’re not always the same. Sometimes no body drops in. Sometimes they just shine on us, and we change. We are remembered, even if it's for only a second, and we change.

Sometimes someone is sucked back into the sky like a wet paper ball off a bully’s blowgun.10
And back they go, into the world of the living. Their fate not yet fulfilled, their purpose still to be known.

I’ve been lifted by the light a couple of times, as if about to be remembered by my cruel god. I suppose I'm not worth the effort as it drops me before I am brought back to that old world. And I’m okay with that.

It's not only us who change. The old world, their world, is too.
The voices, the whispers, they keep coming. I Hadn't cared to perceive them before, until now that my soul has turned sweeter.

They speak about changes.
About boats or… ships?
About morality and punishment.
About wars and migrations in the land of… something with T.

I hear, but not listen to their black and black and white words. I am one with the grey.
I bet there's some value in their dissertations, but at the end of the day I’m still who I was. I've changed, but I'm still me.

I still dont really give a fuck.

They can change the skin I wear, and they can change the mind that inhabits said skin. They can give me the life I always wanted, the one I deserved.

But I still won't be grateful, as they cannot change my soul.
Deep deep deep inside my soul
I still like to watch the butterflies burn.11


Part 4

The last few days have been different in this, my personal oasis. The lights, they keep shining. The whispers, they keep vibrating.
But above all, a voice.
The voice.
I hear it.13

It says it misses me, that I deserved better.
It chirps and chats with its fellow voices, many agree.
They agree.

They are bringing us back, one last time.
That's what they say, that’s what they claim.
“OCT all stars” they exclaim in excitement.14
Their words make my soul rott.

The light shines, and I am ready.
As my fingers start twitching and my blood starts pumping, I make sure to grab my trusty old friend.
I shall rescue them from their own wickedness.


Part 5
GG Motheruckers15

Miranda was a nice kid. She studied. She grew. And she created.

Her passion was with the colors, the brushes, and the empty canvases. Always offering endless possibilities. And she loved it.

From white void sprung life. People.
Each with their own thoughts, feelings and aspirations.
Like puppets she guided them, gave them purpose, gave them love.

And sometimes she made them suffer.

Yet one held a special place in her heart. Willow Deadwood Moriarty. Her first child.

How could she ever forget her first child.
She never did, she always kept Willow within her thoughts. Miranda was too ashamed to bring her back, but she loved her. Loved her enough to keep her around even if it was for short moments.

Miranda updated her, made her better. At least thats how Miranda felt.
Several times she almost brought her back for a full story, a new one more fitting for her first child. Dying to a catgirl was still kind of embarrassing.16

Her friends felt the same way. Miranda had met many wonderful people back all those years. And they all felt the same way. They all missed us.
One day one of them had an idea.

They were all almost off to college, it was their last chance to do something like this.
OCT All Stars to the rescure. They found the typo funni. Some of them did.

And Miranda, she knew exactly who she would bring back.

Blood stains the floor, the bed, the window. Outside, a single17 butterfly looks at the abstract red blobs on the glass as it drinks the nectar from the flowers in the garden. It does not think.

Inside, Miranda was only able to lay a couple strokes in her drawing tablet.
Before they took life of their own.
Before they danced like leaves on the wind.
Before they jumped from the screen.

Maybe there was a lesson to be learned, maybe not.18

Miranda looks upwards towards the sky. A single light illuminates her room. Her very, very red room.
Upon the chair in her desk she sees it. A broken screen, and springing from it, the goddam massive scythe. Its blade rests upon the stump of her neck.
And Miranda slumbers.19

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