Hey there kids, welcome to my first attempt at writing fanfiction in well over a year. The reason I have finally emerged from my year-long writer's block? I've recently become ridiculously obsessed with Steam Powered Giraffe and everything associated with it. I'm not kidding; if I'm not trying to throw together an entire (month long) college project the day before it's due, I'm reading SPG fanfiction. Naturally, it was only a matter of time before a fanfiction of my own emerged from the enormous train wreck that is my imagination. As I'm a (somewhat) newer member of the fandom, I'm not 200% certain that the way I've portrayed the band members is correct, but I'm trying, really I am. Prepare yourselves for some OOCness though, seriously. Oh, and I beat up the characters I love the most, so get ready for A LOT of angst and whump. Welp, without further adieu, here's the first of (hopefully) quite a few chapters of The Shortcut... The next chapter will be longer, I promise.
So, enjoy... I hope :S
It had been, in hindsight, a spectacularly stupid idea to begin with. Not, however, that this was entirely surprising considering it was The Jon from whom the idea had sprung in the first place.
Michael sighed, shifting uncomfortably in the darkened room. He let out a weak cough as his body protested the inhalation of air so thick with dust it was almost suffocating. Trust Jon to be the one to get us into this situation, he thought in exasperation, sparing a concerned glance to the smallest automaton's motionless form lying face down next to him in the rubble. The youngest 'bot hadn't stirred since he's awoken and found himself in his current predicament and Michael was deeply concerned for his well-being. As concerned as he was, however, he was incapable of moving his body at all without causing himself a great deal of pain and had long since concluded that he simply couldn't reach his friend to help him, much to his dismay.
He dragged his gaze away, reluctantly, and moved it to the gaping hole in the ceiling several metres above them, edges still crumbling away slightly every so often from their trip through from the floor above. The plaster from the hole was collecting in a wide circle around them both, some of it dropping into the Jon's wig turning it a dusty grey colour in the dim light that trickled through.
He coughed again, this time doubling over in pain as one cough turned into another until he was having a full on coughing fit. Blood dribbled from the corner of his lips and onto the ground as his broken ribs protested the movement, creaking painfully in his chest. When the fit finally ended, several painful minutes later, he flopped bonelessly against the wall behind him and waited for the ringing in his ears to pass; the black and purple spots dancing in his vision to clear. Gasping in agony, he clutched one hand to his battered chest in a pathetic attempt to ease the pain and reached out with the other to grasp The Jon's right shoulder, gently shaking him.
"C-come on, Jon. Just wake... wake up already... you i-idiot. Th-this is all your... your f-fault... after all."
He barely managed to choke out the words, finding that the effort of speaking just those few words has drained what little energy he had left from his previous coughing fit. He let out another wheezing cough and closed his eyes, feeling himself sink into oblivion as he drifted into unconsciousness.
Hurry up and find us, guys...