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Vriska Serket And The Raddest Movie Marathon Ever (the No Sun In My Sky remix)

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AG: And I won't have to worry a8out 8eing the 8est anymore, or proving what a ruthless killer I can 8e.
AG: May8e I can try out whatever is supposed to 8e normal for a human. Who knows, it might not 8e as 8oring as it sounds!
AG: May8e
AG: If you're not too freaked out 8y all the 8ad things I've done........
AG: Or the fact that I am an alien
AG: We could go on a d8? ::::O
AG: Don't worry, it could 8e a human d8, whatever that entails.
AG: No weird alien stuff, I promise! And no killing or murders, or even talking a8out killing or murders and such. Just whatever you like to talk a8out and think is cool.
AG: I could even 8e persu8ed to watch more of your a8surd human films.

“Where do we go from here?” John asks.

“Anywhere we want,” you lie. You’re very good at lying, simply the best: you sound completely eight hundred percent sincere. You brush crumbs of chocolate human sponge dessert off your jeans, and stand up off the porch. The human suburbs are peaceful and alien, and the sky is a beautiful blue.

“We could watch some movies,” John says.

“No,” you say. “That would be boring! Boring and dumb! Let’s have an adventure, instead!” You concentrate and twist the bubble, and the gritty glued-together black stones of the human street become a pink ocean. The porch becomes a ship. You are wearing your FLARP gear, black and blue and very fancy, and John is wearing teal and red. He laughs, stumbling a little from the sway of the ship and the wedge heels of Terezi’s boots, and catches your elbow.

“Wait, so you don’t like movies or something?” John asks. “I have a lot of them--”

“Why would you want to be part of anyone else’s story but your own?” you snap.

It’s not an answer, and you haven’t fooled him. He rubs uneasily at his tabard and changes into his ectosuit, adjusts his tie.

“Is this still a date?” he asks.

So you just shrug, uncomfortable, unsure. Off-balance. You’re so good at lying, but you don’t really want to hear what you’d say if you said anything now. “If you want it to be,” is what you finally settle on.

“Point the way, Marquess,” he says, and gives an eight hundred percent sincere smile. His eyes are so white: they were blue when he was alive, blue as his alien suburb sky.


“So I’ve been thinking there’s something we gotta do, at the end of this date, Vriska,” John says one night, weeks later, maybe perigees later. He’s sitting on the open rim of a pirate chest, sorting through the treasure. It’s all glossy human mini-movie records, and they spark silver and rainbows across his pale pink skin.

“We don’t gotta do anything!” you say. “Captain’s orders, there’s not one thing! Not one!” You make yourself a big fancy hat just to prove this.

“We have to have a movie marathon,” he says anyway. “We’ve been putting it off long enough, I think.”

“I don’t want to.”

“It’ll be fun!”

It might be, and it might not be. But it makes you cold all over, and the bit in you that remembers getting a sword stuck right through the bloodpusher goes sort of funny and foreboding.

“I really don’t want to, John,” you say. You’re being very honest for once, you are abruptly tired of all the lying and the running and the everything. “Can’t we just keep doing... this? We could just be on this date forever, just going new places, and thinking new things up...”

John only makes himself an even fancier hat. “Doublecaptain’s orders!” he says, and your ship turns into an entertainment block.

“Does this mean the date’s over?” you ask thinly.

He only laughs, and hugs you close. “If you had so much fun on this one, we’ll have another one right after,” he says.

You hug him back.

“I mean, if you want to,” he adds.

You pick him up and dump him on the couch.

“Let’s get this over with!” you say. “Nic Cage better be as cool as you say he was, buster!”

“He’s eight times as cool,” John promises.


Nic Cage is eight times cooler than anyone and also completely handsome, and even though John says ‘Gross!’ and ‘I don’t think about him like that!’ you know he thinks the same way you do. Nic Cage is an angel, a vigilante, a soldier, a convict, a gritty badass with tangled hair and a nose that’s just pointy enough to give him some character and he is always, always a hero. After a while you realize you are crying, harder than you’ve ever cried before. It wrenches out of you in awful gross chunks, it shakes you down to your bones and steals most of your breath and all of your dignity.

“Vriska,” John says, rubbing your back, “Oh, Vriska, I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t think. This has something to do with Alive John, doesn’t it? I’m really, super, mega totally sorry--”

“Me too,” you gulp, swallowing uselessly. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.” The crying leaks out through your teeth no matter how hard you clench them, and you think you have drooled on your human buddyleader underneath all the snot and tears.

John sounds like he’s on the edge of crying himself. “I wish I was the right John,” he says, and snuffles. “He’d know what to say to you.”

You laugh, all screwed up with tears. It’s a horrible noise. “There’s nothing to say, stupid!” you croak. “We’re dead! We’re dead forever and ever, and if you were the right John then he’d be dead too, dead for real like I am!”

“Oh.” He rubs your back more. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

You sniff, hard, and scrub your face with your sleeve. “You never do think about much, John! That’s why you need me around. Needed me.”

“No, present tense is right. I do need you.” He leans forward. He is smallish and skinny and his glasses don’t really fit his face, and he’s wearing the beat-up teal ectosuit he always wears when he gets nervous, the one that’s so close to Terezi’s color, the one she killed him in. He looks nothing like Nic Cage, but he’s got almost the same kind of nose. You are not entirely sure who you’re in love with, and your heart is all stuck through with a sword, besides. You are completely a mess.

“I’m really glad you’re not the right John,” you blurt out. His face is very close to yours. “Is that awful of me?”

“I’m glad I met you,” John says. He kisses you, wet and kind of gross, and laughs unhappily. He says, “I’m glad you’re dead too, because then some other me would get to do this. So I think we’re both pretty awful.”

You lick human spit off your lips. John tastes a little bit like popcorn and a bit like Tavros and Eridan, and you don’t know if this is just how boys taste or if this is how everyone tastes. You wonder if he tastes anything like Terezi. He tastes warm and alive, even though he isn’t. You’ve got three colors of blood on your hand, then they all go bright burnt-eyeball human red, and so you squeeze all your fingers together until they’re clean again.

“Yeah,” you say, instead of thinking any more, and put your clean hands on the shoulders of his oily, tattered jacket. “Yeah, we’re totally awful!”

Then you kiss him back. Neither of you have any breath to lose, not really, not ever again actually, but it feels like you do, and that’s pretty good. Blood flickers between your fingers, red, teal, brown, blue, red again. You are dead forever and ever, and John dares to slide warm, dirt-gritty human fingers up under your orange pj-top. His eyes are perfectly blank, but he looks like he’s happy anyway, and you-- you think you’re happy, too.

How do I live without you? the movie asks.

But that’s for other people to figure out.

AG: Anyway, if you actually get around to reading any of this, thanks for listening, John.
AG: If my outrageously gr8 luck has any say in the matter, we will 8e meeting up in no time!
AG: Just please consider what I said.
AG: Ok........
AG: L8r! <33333333