A/N: I HAVE WRITERS BLOCK AND THIS IS DUMB. Slight mentions of suicide in this, nothing extremely graphic. Enjoy?
The Player has lost count of the days since the last update. Well, more like gave up on counting. Why should they have to keep track, when all the voices in their head can do it for them ten times over? Why should they attempt anything until the world spins again? There is nothing to do but wait, wait until the dull aching buzz behind their eyes erupts into a roar. The Player stretches and sighs as they wake, slumped forward in their chair, forehead pressing against their desk. They sink their nails into the wood, carving small grooves absentmindedly. Sometimes the Player wishes they lived somewhere other than the Land of Stumps and Dismay; there is almost nothing to do on the empty, colorless planet.
The Player's already explored as far as they could into the white horizon. There's nothing out there that they can get to. Nothing besides Scratch's apartment, anyway, and that's useless now. He wouldn't be anymore a conversationalist then the goddamn tree stump mocking the Player just meters from the desk. Once the story's paused and caught up, there's no script anymore. No script, no speaking for any of the characters- except them, because of the Readers' influence.
They lift their head with another sigh and stare with aching eyes at the stump, curling a lip at it in disgust. Damn tree stump, thinking it can sit there and be so smug about emitting a suicide signal constantly. That isn't funny, you insensitive plant corpse. Even still, the Player finds themselves pulling their pistol from their pocket and glancing at it experimentally, blinking with a yawn. The muzzle is still slightly red from that incident and drips onto the grass, staining it crimson. Wonderful. They shove it back into its pocket with a snarl.
They spin around in their chair a few times, staring up at the empty sky. Nothing moves across the overcast clouds- no birds, no planes, no meteors. Nothing. The Player closes their eyes, letting the faint sun that shines still through the clouds turn the inside of their eyelids brilliant red. It hurts a little, but it's warm and colorful. And it's something other then nothing.
If only they were a Reader themselves and not simply a fictional vessel of the collective conscience. Maybe then they wouldn't be so bored, so lonely, so tired. It was hard to imagine what it would be like to be a Reader, a being even higher then a First Guardian, a being even higher then themselves, but the Player knew that the Readers' lives were much more interesting then theirs. They'd hear snippets of stories in their ears sometimes, have their vision washed for a moment by a Reader's, smell things that weren't there.
All of these small random occurrences, made the Player grateful towards the Readers. They were pretty sure, had they been alone without the companionship of thousands of voices, they would have had another incident by now. For all the madness the Readers' sometimes subjected the Player to, it wasn't even close to the insanity being by themselves on LOSAD would have been.
The Player opens their eyes again, blinking away the stars in their eyes. Nothing has changed. The LOSAD remains empty, the Readers' continue to chatter in staticky bursts, and the Player returns to their previous posture- slumped forward on the desk, eyes shut, fingers letting their nails sink deep into the wood. At least sleeping is something the Player can do, and actually do well.
A/N: Writing is hard. Hope you enjoyed this stupid self indulgent oneshot meta-y thing.