Tumblr's land is sort of foggy and full of little croaky frogs. My ears are really cold. I didn't know ears could get cold. Tumblr manages to get Fretardsprite over to me, but immediately buzzes off, citing 'weird disturbances in the force, like ugh.' Her words, not mine.

I push a little bit of dirt around with my foot. The soil's drier and crumblier than any of the other planets I've been on. Seriously need to decide what to do now, because my entire family is dead and I'm not sure what to do with my session stuff. Like, fight? Get tiger?

Fretardsprite hovers beside me as I walk, and he keeps a grip on my hand, just in case I get lost.

"This is messed up, man. If I stayed home, I could be a vegetarian right now. But since I started eating meat and stuff again, my nails have been looking better, yeah?" I say, to fill the silence.

"Yes," says Fretardsprite. It's gurgly, like someone at the bottom of a well filled with tar, but it's still yes. "Holy crap!" I exclaim, and pull him into a hug. He's learning! He can be taught! Yes! Friggin' awesome!

"Ficwad!"

I look between Fretardsprite's heads, and see my cousin. He's waving me down, arms spread wide, looking for hugs or other sorts of affection. I let go of Fretardsprite, but don't move. This seems wrong.

"You okay?" I ask, cautious, cautious, walking on eggshells.

"I'm fine!" he says. "Come closer!"

I oblige and take a single step. He closes the rest of the distance. His eyes are scabbed milky white, dark blue irises looking like fetal baby birds way back in there. I'm not surprised. I should have expected this.

"Damn. Dead?" I ask, conversationally.

He nods, sort of a what-can-you-do sort of thing. "You scared?" he asks me. He? It? Whatevs, pronouns are probably the least important thing on my mind right now. But I put some serious thought into that. Because I'm not afraid of him, not really. He's my cousin. Or at least, a sock-puppety version of my cousin manipulated by flying spaghetti monsters. By this point, I guess, you just get more or less used to it, the whole Dead people, dead eyes, et cetera, et cetera, yours truly, space octopi deal. I mean, after a while, this whole thing gets sort of stale, like B-movie jump scares. Is that a tree? No! Dead people! Is that your friends? No! Dead people!

Fanfiction Dot-Net burps a little, giving a gurgle that sounds like a whiskey burp. "Now what?" he asks me, rubbing a hand over his chest to settle his weird ghost-burp reflex. "Don't you know?" I ask him, sort of genuinely surprised. But I guess if I don't know, he won't know either because he's a projection of my self-conscious that's been shellacked by weird aliens. Huh. How about that. Well, if there's something for me to do, I probably just have to find off into the stump-filled planet, Fake-Fanfiction starts following me, each footstep squishing like a rubber boot full of water. Skerk. Skerk. Skerk. Skerk. And then another whiskey burp. "Sorry," he says.

Fretardsprite's gone by this point. I don't know where. I missed that bit of plot development. But we're off through the Land of Suck and Gray. "I hate doing this, you know," I call back to Fake-Fanfiction. "I hate going on weird Horrorterror errands, because I never know what the hell I'm supposed to be doing. I mean, if you guys are so high and mighty, can't you at least give a list or a sign or something?"

He answers with a slightly sicker-sounding whiskey burp, and then starts gurgling.

"Hey, you alright?" I ask. He burps again, harder, this time, and it's followed by the telltale splash of puke. My own gag reflex kicks in, and I clap my hand over my mouth. So gross, are you kidding me? Like, ew! I don't even want to turn around, because he's probably throwing up blood or ink-black tentacles and I really don't want to have any part of that. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Think about anything else! My throat heaves anyway, making an awful, sputtering blech.

"Ual. Arten yi angau."

I look up, and for a minute, it looks like another, somewhat goth-y version of my cousin. But the build is stockier, the chin narrower, and he's shorter than my cousin by a few inches. His skin is a dark grey, and he's got white hair and glowing eyes. There's some sort of disquiet around him, something that seems dark and reaching and fumbling, something that I'm not sure I'm okay with.

"Arten yi angau," he says again.

I don't want to offend him, so I try to speak his language.

"Holla! Je m'apple Ficwad! Konichiwa!"

His heavy-lidded eyes darken with disapproval.

"Gish ot h'akenya ygiss wgikeled," he says. I'm not sure if that's what he said, because he might be speaking German.

"Danke shön!" I tell him cheerfully. I learned that from Ferris Bueller's Day Off. I think it's Danish, which is a subdistrict of Germany. He doesn't look too impressed with my knowledge, and starts trying even harder to communicate with me.

"Ahs dsa'ann, ysa'lda'e sa's sa'shsa'll alsa've, 'sub kal sa's, drith a'us. Ual yass reth'ann," he says it slowly, each phlegm-ridden syllable grinding in his throat.

"Are you going to puke? Don't puke on me!" I warn him, taking a step back. Maybe it's contagious or something! What if it could totally cross the sleep/wake barrier, and then I'd be all gross and pukey and sick!

He gives a groan of exasperation, and points at me.

"Ginggiu."

"Sorry? Is that my name in your language? Ginggiu?" I ask, and he nods, slowly. I repeat it, and he flinches, gesturing with his hands to keep my voice down. Then, he points to the left. "T'reth yi gas'daan," he intones, and then repeats the gesture. I repeat after him. Is this the big secret agenda of the Horrorterrors? Send in some random guy to teach me the YMCA and remedial french? What the hell am I even saying? 'From the window the the wall'?

Grey guy points behind me, and says, "Lir'yi...uh...vica'ah?" Cue apologetic shrug, like he's not even sure.

"Fanfiction Dot-Net," he says, pointing behind me.

My heart stands still.

Lir'yi vica'ah? Is that my cousin's name? Like my name? Ginggiu?

"Lar'ya vic'ah," I try saying.

He closes the distance, and the darkness around him doesn't seem so bad. It seems sort of friendly. Nice. Comfortable.

"Kel sa's alrsa'ght. Ual discanti," he says, so softly, and reaches over to take my face in his hands. "Ual et disci'yab belacs."

I try my best to mimic his accent. "Ual et disc'yabi bellacs?" I try, and he laughs, it sounding like H'reth h'reth h'reth. Like a smoker's cough. "Yeah. Gnorri fo calfwedich."