Chapter Text
Rose>>Wake
You are Rose Lalonde, and you have been awake for approximately two minutes.
You lay on your bed, staring up at the ceiling. You had gotten up a moment or so ago, seen where you were, and immediately fell back, wishing you could float back into the Medium(you can’t).
You are so angry. You had, in the past, briefly considered what could happen once the game ended, provided you managed to beat it. But this was too much.You whip a pillow against the wall angrily, then become angry with yourself for losing your cool so easily. Oh, lord, you’ve become Dave.
Finally, you grab your laptop off your desk. Maybe your friends have been pestering you. And if they haven’t, YOU surely have more than enough to say on the matter of being stranded back on earth with no warning.
Though now that you are able to think without being engulfed by rage, you don’t actually know that you’re stuck here. You haven’t even left your room.
Opening your laptop, you find that one of your chums HAS been pestering you. Your brother.
turntechGodhead began pestering tentacleTherapist at 10:02
turntechGodhead: rose
turntechGodhead: are you awake
turntechGodhead: hello
turntechGodhead: guess not
turntechGodhead: what the fuck man
turntechGodhead: i feel like ive been flung through the vortex of time but its also lined with razor blades and the razor blades only cut you emotionally and mentally
turntechgodhead: psychic damage and all that shit
tentacleTherapist: That is also about how I feel as well
tentacleTherapist: This is some bullshit
turntechGodhead: wow you were even brief
TurntechGodhead: yeah this sucks
turntechGodhead: whats going on
tentacleTherapist: I dont know
turntechGodhead: yeah well why would you
turntechGodhead: none of us know anything
tentacleTherapist: Have you contacted our other friends?
turntechGodhead: no
turntechGodhead: not yet
turntechGodhead: have you left your room
tentacleTherapist: no, I have not
tentacleTherapist: I only just gathered the mental energy to answer messages. I have contemplated, but
tentacleTherapist: I am afraid what I may find
turntechGodhead: yeah.
turntechGodhead: do you think
turntechGodhead: you know
turntechGodhead: hes here
tentacleTherapist: ... I do not know, dave
tentacleTherapist: I wish i could tell you
tentacleTherapist: but I would like you to know that I’ll be here
There’s a smash from downstairs, and you jump in spite of yourself.
There’s someone else in the house.
You don’t know if you want to find out who, or what (thats a lie), so you sit on your bed, staring at the door, and when you look back at your pesterlog, you have a few more messages.
turntechGodhead: yeah
turntechGodhead: thanks rose
turntechGodhead: and you know
turntechGodhead: same goes for you
tentacleTherapist: thank you
tentacleTherapist: This may be the worst possible time to say this, but I have to go
turntechGodhead: hey no problem
turntechGodhead: whats going on
tentacleTherapist: there was a large crash across the house, I assume from downstairs
tentacleTherapist: I will talk to you again soon
turntechGodhead: alright
turntechGodhead: good luck
tentacleTherapist: thank you. I believe I may need it
tentacleTherapist: I love you
turntechGodhead: damn you do?
turntechGodhead: you too
turntechGodhead ceased pestering tentacleTherapist at 10:11
After your conversation with Dave, you are feeling no less uneasy, perhaps even more so. You do not wish to investigate, but simultaneously you must know what caused the sound.
You contemplate for a second or so, and then slide off your bed, bright blue god tier shoes stepping to the ground with narry a sound.
You slip out of your room, and find your way downstairs to the living room. Nothing. Just before entering the kitchen, you hear movement. It sounded like something limply hitting the floor.
Not allowing yourself to think, you walk in.
Your mother is sitting on the floor.
Your heart jumps.
“Mother.”
She looks up, pink eyes wide. You stare at each other for a moment, your heart pounding, and those large eyes grow sad.
“Rose, I’m—“ she stops, swallowing. “I’m just Roxy.”
“Roxy,” you repeat. The name feels wrong in your mouth, and you resent that.
She nods a little desperately.
There’s a long silence, until—
“May I... may I hug you?”
Roxy in your mother’s body gets up quickly, almost overbalances, but steadies herself.
“I know you aren’t my mother,” you manage weakly. “At least not in the way I...... but please, would you mind—“
She crosses the kitchen and pulls you into her chest.
You allow yourself to lean into her.
“You don’t have to ask,” she whispers in her New York accent.
You laugh, halfway to a sob. But you don’t cry.