CHAPTER ONE
You stand to the side of the room, watching over everyone freak out as they prepare for another dream-bubble to approach. The chaos unfolds around you, the dramatic and sexual tension palpable in the air. Karkat stands to the other side of the room with Terezi, yelling about her about something or another. She just keeps on smiling that creepy smirk of hers. She'll start making fun of him sooner or later.
You shift your attention to the left of you. Rose and Kanaya sit at one of the tables, discussing something in one of her creepy books. They both seem stiff and tensioned, but that's cool. Shit happens.
Sollux approaches Karkat, distress written across his features. You can't help but overhear them, as Sollux is not very good at whispering.
"Karkat," he says, ignoring Terezi's jibes at him, "the stars are going out."
Any discussion in the room pauses, and an eerie silence fills the space. Karkat stares at him. "What the fuck do you mean the stars are going out? The stars don't just fucking choose when the hell they shine, idiot." You can sense a hint of disbelief in his voice, but you could be mistaken.
Sollux appears annoyed. "I know that Karkat, I wasn't born yesterday. But the stars. Are literally. Going. Out."
Karkat moves to the ladder leading out of the base and onto the surface of the asteroid. Sollux follows him out of the hatch, and Karkat comes back down after a moment.
"People," he starts, and everyone is looking at him with disbelief, as his usual ornery tone is gone from his voice, and the anger there could very easily be mistaken for fear. "fasten your fucking seatbelts, we've got another fucking bubble about to engulf our sorry asses."
You open your eyes, and the room is dark. It's cold where you are, clammy. You reach up to rub your eyes, but strangely, your arms are immobile. You sit up, and feel that your arms are fastened, crossed in front of you and held together by some sort of cloth.
You're sitting somewhere; the ground is push, like couch cushions. What kind of a memory is this? You can't see anything, it's much too cold, and your arms are tied around yourself, like a fucking self-hug.
Wait a second…
Where the hell are your god-pajamas? You know you were wearing them before the bubble, and the other bubbles you've entered hadn't changed your apparel, so what was so different about this one?
The lights come on rapidly, a loud buzzing filling your ears. You close your eyes against the painful lightness of the room.
Where the hell are you? And where are your shades? Your best bro gave you those shades, and you just up and lose them? Some sorry fucker you are.
Why is it so white in the place? It can't be the Land of Frost and Frogs, it's not cold enough, and it's impossible for it to be the Land of Little Cubes and Tea, this surface is definitely not sugar, or cats.
What the hell is that sound? Your head is buzzing from the shrieking pulse of it, and you can't fathom the reason you're asking yourself all these questions. You're usually so level-headed, the cool-kid vibe going strong.
You open your eyes, ignoring the pain of the blaring white and let your eyes adjust.
Seriously, where are your shades?
You look down and see what's restraining you.
What the fuck is happening.
There's no way this is your memory, and you're pretty sure it's not Rose's either. Probably not any of the trolls, you haven't heard any mention of this before, and Karkat talks a LOT.
You struggle, but decide it's futile, and you just sit there against the wall. You attempt to calmly assess your situation.
Your hair is the first thing you notice; it's oily and hangs down in clumps in front of your face. Shit, didn't you have Rose cut it, like, last week?
The second thing you notice are your shoes. These aren't your awesome kicks, the ones bro got you for your birthday before this whole Sburb mess started, these are horrible gray loafers, and they are rank.
Then again, apparently so is everything else about this situation.
You notice that not only is the floor made of plush white foam, but so is the rest of the room. Every square inch of it. Even the fucking ceiling.
Seriously. Who the fuck pads a ceiling.
You notice that one panel of the wall-padding is slightly separate from the rest, like a door. There's a small slot in the top, like a window. Maybe if you can jam your sword in there and use it like a crowbar…
Fuck. Where the hell is your sword?
You make a groan of frustration, hanging your head in acceptance. There's no way you're going to get out of this situation, you might as well just wait this bubble out…
No, fuck that. Dave Strider is not a quitter. Dave Strider gets shit done.
You slowly stand, all too painfully aware of the swirling dizziness that engulfs your tired mind, like you haven't stood up in ages. You shuffle over to the winder, your legs nearly giving out, they felt so weak. When was the last time you had walked? In this memory at least?
Whoever's memory this is, they're going to need some serious Rose-Counseling after this is over.
You hear a sharp screeching noise, like rusty wheels scooting over a tile floor. That is, of course, exactly what they turn out to be.
A woman wearing hospital scrubs is pushing a metal cart down a hallway outside of your room, laden with food. You become painfully aware of the hollowness in your stomach, the dryness of your cheeks. You need some of that food, no matter how unappetizing it may look.
You bonk your head against the glass, generating a dull thud. It must be three or four inches think, at least. Geez. It's enough to gain the woman's attention, at least. When she looks at you, her eyes widen in surprise, and she freezes mid-step. Her expression is one of confusion, even awe.
She keeps the cart where it has stopped, turns around, and rushes down the hallway as fast as her stubby little legs can take her.
You try calling after her, but it's no use. She can't hear your voice through the glass at this distance, and she's getting farther away every second. You bang your forehead against the glass once more, groaning in contempt.
Here you are, in a padded fucking room, wearing a straightjacket, and you're still fucking hungry.