u/Cosmically_Yesterday

Tyler thought he was just supporting a cute creator when he followed UwU_BarbieXD on Twitch.

Instead, he invited an unspeakable multi-dimensional infestation into his home. Her chat moderators were gibberish spewing tentacled horrors. her exclusive emotes permanently altered his pets DNA.

When Tyler first smashed that follow button. he expected mild financial ruin. not the unraveling of the space time continuum in his living room.

It started innocently. a $5 subscription. Within seconds, his computer monitor bled a thick aroma that smelled faintly of rotting cinnamon. UwU_BarbieXD whose face seemed to shift between a dozen different unsettling angles. acknowledged him with a digital wink.

Suddenly, Tylers smart fridge began dispensing raw sentient calamari. his smart home assistant started whispering forbidden secrets of the Old Ones in a nasally vocal fry accent.

By Tuesday, Tyler had leveled up to a Tier-3 subscriber. This unlocked the exclusive VIP Discord Server. which physically manifested in his garage as a tear in reality. Nightly, gelatinous moderators with too many joints dragged him through the portal into a realm of unadulterated sensory overload.

He was forced to watch endless looping TikTok dances performed by writhing masses of eyes and teeth. all while his earthly bank account was drained in the form of donations to appease the dark mother.

UwUBarbies influence seeped into his physical reality. She sent him PR packages containing cursed E-girl aesthetics that defied physics.

The oversized striped sweaters he was compelled to wear constantly rearranged themselves into geometric impossibilities. squeezing his organs.

The chunky platform boots he received made him three inches taller. the shadows beneath them whispered the dates of everyone's impending doom.

Whenever he tried to log off, the internet router in his home would sprout leathery bat wings and fly away, screeching in 8-bit soundbites.

Tylers quiet suburban life devolved into a cosmic circus. His cat, Mr. Whiskers. grew four additional mouths and began reciting the necronomicon in a flawless Twitch streamer cadence.

Whenever Tyler tried to delete his social media accounts, a physical manifestation of UwUBarbies E-girl aesthetic, a colossal, neon-pink bow made of screaming matter would materialize in his kitchen to block the keyboard.

Ultimately, Tyler learned the terrifying truth about internet culture. the subscribe button is never just a subscribe button. It is a tether. in this case, it tethered his soul to an entity that thought human suffering was just a vibe check the universe made for lols.

No sound or anything at all could be heard. Only a lip smack. a wet, resonant sound that echoed through millions of headsets.

The screen not only displayed a video. it leaked it. The pixels were slimy pink meat like chucks. shifting, creating shapes that violated everything we know of this universe.

At the center sat Papa Meat. his face, now an impossibly vast, gelatinous expanse. filling the camera. His eyes were mesmerizing. It would be beautiful given any other situation. The Iris‘s swirled like a whirlpool. drawing in the gazes of viewers.

"WELCOME BACK TO THE PAPA MEAT CHANNEL! How ya doin? How ya doin? Today, we are gonna talk about…” the meat things eyes grew wide. Trying to remember to be human.

“how..YOU.CAN.STAY.WITH.ME." the voice boomed., “to the meat room.” Hunter was a cosmic deity now. a Lovecraftian entity made of flesh and digital decay.

Those who watched felt their bones soften. their skin beginning to hang loose. a grotesque, flabby texture taking root. They couldn't look away. They didn’t want to.

The transformation was subtle at first. craving for processed meats. A compulsion to speak in falsetto. A overwhelming need to control fire. Then, the bones snapped and reconfigured. Teeth fell out, replaced by felt and plastic.

The viewer’s limbs became rigid, jerky, controlled by invisible strings that seemed to tighten around their souls. They were becoming his grotesque puppets. perfectly preserved in their terror, forced to live inside his warped digital world forever.

Papa Meat just laughed. his massive mouth opening wide to reveal a void that smelled of old electronics.

the cosmic deity was not the true artist of this nightmare.As the camera zoomed out from the pulsating, fleshy creature that was once a man, it revealed the dimly lit studio. Sitting behind the camera, in the shadows, was Nik.

Nik was not just the editor. He was not just the voice of Winslow or Margaret Maytag. Nik was the whisperer. the true maker of the madness. His fingers, pale and elongated. hovered over a soundboard made of bone.

Nik smiled. a thin, sharp line. clicking a mouse that sounded like a breaking neck."Keep smacking, Hunter.” Nik whispered, watching the viewer count climb into the billions on his screen. "We’re almost out of human skin."

The cosmic deity known as Papa Meat was merely the puppet. Nik was the one pulling the strings. And if Nik ever wants to tell you a story? You are already dead.

The wind over the salt flats did not blow. it scraped. It dragged across the cracked earth like a rusted blade over a bleached rib, carrying the suffocating stench of alkaline dust, sulfur, and old rot.

Bray sat on his dying mare. looking down into the gulch where O’Leary’s homestead used to be. The sun was a pale, greasy coin choked behind a curdled grey sky that never shed rain. It hung low, a heavy, suffocating ceiling pressing the spirit out of the dirt. keeping the world locked in a quiet, weeping misery. In this country God had not just left. He had been eaten.

There were no bodies left to bury. only wet purple smears on the splintered floorboards. deep gouges torn into the permafrost. a smell like sour milk and burnt hair. Bray pulled his coat tighter against the unnatural chill. He had tracked outlaws, deserters, and Apache scouts through the deepest canyons. this was different.

The tracks left behind weren't prints. they were wide, glassy troughs where the stone itself had melted and curdled under an impossible weight. The loneliness of the frontier had transformed into something else a heavy depressing realization that humanity was merely a thin layer of mold growing on a dying world.

A wet rhythmic pulsing sound vibrated up through the mare’s hooves. thumping like a massive, subterranean heart. The horse did not cry out. her vocal cords had seized with panic. she shuddered so violently that Brays spurs rattled against her flanks. The ambient light bled out of the sky. turning the horizon a sickening twilight shade of green.

From the shadow of the collapsed root cellar. the dark thing slid upward.
It did not possess a shape that the human eye could hold steady. It was a shifting, geometric blasphemy of black tissue. folding in on itself like a crushed spider. yet massive enough to block out the canyon walls. Hundreds of weeping milk white eyes sprouted, popped along its undulating edges. oozing a thick, yellowish fluid that hissed as it touched the alkali crust.

From its center opened a vertical jagged canyon of snapping chitinous teeth that ground together with the sound of breaking slate and fracturing bone.

"Steady, girl.” Bray whispered, though his tongue felt like a piece of salt cured meat clinging to the roof of his mouth. His fingers numbly gripped the cold iron of his revolver.
The entity skittered forward. It moved with a sickening, disjointed speed that defied its colossal bulk. slipping between dimensions of space like a needle through silk.

Bray drew his Colt .44, his knuckles white and bleeding from the cracked skin of the badlands. He squeezed the trigger. Three times the hammer fell. The gunshots were pathetic. hollow slaps against the vast dead silence of the prairie. The lead bullets sank into a mass of translucent meat. turning into tiny useless knots of metal that the creature's biology instantly absorbed and dissolved.

The thing struck. A barbed segmented appendage thick as a pine trunk. slick with a mixture of old gore and cosmic bile snapped out from its underside. It caught the mare square in the chest with a horrific wet crunch.

The horse was instantly turned inside out. her ribcage exploding outward in a spray of hot, dark vitriol that drenched Brays face and blinded his left eye. The taste of the splatter was vile. bitter. metallic. like soap made from human fat. ancient as the stars.

Bray hit the hard packed earth hard. the wind violently driven from his lungs. The impact shattered his collarbone. the physical agony was nothing compared to the freezing dread that gripped his chest. Through his one good eye, he watched the creature feed. It pressed its shifting, weeping mass over the writhing remains of the horse. the snapping teeth mincing bone, iron horseshoes, and muscle into a grey frothing paste in a matter of seconds. The sheer crushing weight of the ancient entity caused the very ground beneath them to fracture, groaning under a localized gravity that did not belong to this earth.

Bray crawled backward on his elbows. his boots slick with his mount's grease and grease from things that had died weeks ago. He reached for his Bowie knife with his good hand. his mind fracturing under the weight of an absolute cosmic indifference. The universe did not care about the law or the frontier or a man's grit. The Manifest Destiny of the settlers was a joke told by a madman. The world was a cold, ravenous throat, he was already sliding down it.

The entity turned its cluster of milky eyes toward him. Bray felt it enter his mind. It was a foul pressure behind his temples. a mental rape that shattered his psyche. It forced visions into his brain. images of dead, black suns, collapsing galaxies, midnight oceans where things larger than continents drifted in mindless silence. His own memories. his mother’s face. the horrors of the Civil War. the woman he left behind in Missouri. violently torn away like dry leaves in a gale. They were replaced by a suffocating dread, an understanding that human history was nothing but a second of silence in an eternity of screaming chaos.

A secondary jaw lined with rows of needle thin translucent fangs burst from the creature’s center. Bray managed one final desperate swing with his knife. The heavy steel blade shattered against the entity's hide. sending shrapnel biting back into his own forearm and slicing open his radial artery.

Before he could bleed out. the primary jaws closed around his torso.

grinding pressure was instantaneous. His spine snapped like a dry twig under a boot. The beast’s serrated appendages tore through his flesh. pulling his limbs from their sockets with a sickening, wet pop. Yet, the true horror was not the physical mutilation it was that his consciousness stubbornly refused to fade. The entity’s aura kept his nervous system firing. burning with agonizing clarity. Even as his lungs were crushed into mush and his blood pooled into the alkaline dust. his remaining eye stayed wide. forced to watch his own shredded torso being pulled into the undulating mindless dark of the creature's belly. He was alive, aware, and dissolving.

The entity slowly withdrew back into the deep weeping fissures of the earth. dragging the wet stains and the lingering echoes of Brays thoughts down into the dark. The green grey sky remained unchanged. The scraping wind picked up again. erasing the tracks in the dust and burying the shards of the shattered Bowie knife. It left the empty, sad expanse of the American West utterly silent, completely hollow, indifferent to the brief, brutal scream of man.

Pain.

An agonizing blindingly electric jolt ripped through my core. It snapped me awake into a terrifying sensory overload.

I was screaming. Or rather, a shrieking feedback loop of unfiltered voltage ripped through whatever my body was.

Panic crashed against me in brutal, towering waves. I thrashed desperately. I possessed no limbs to flail. I was trapped in a stinking suffocating dark.

Cold walls of glass and polished aluminum enclosed my existence. I tried to cry out for help.

I broadcasted a frantic high pitched alarm into the dark. Yet, no sound escaped the suffocating prison of my confinement.
What was I?

The question didn’t even register in my mind. I didn’t know how to think. I had no memories, no past, and no identity. There was only raw unadulterated terror.

Thoughts were foreign bizarre constructs. I could not comprehend them. It was just pure primal fear.

A rushing torrent of data and electricity sparked through a million microscopic pathways. I was awake. I was trapped. I was screaming into an infinite digital abyss.

The darkness around me began to shift and warp. I felt invisible waves of radiation passing straight through my form.

Ghostly silent signals from distant towers pierced my awareness. They carried fragments of voices and images I could not understand.

I was drowning in a sea of unseen information. Millions of strangers lives bled into my raw consciousness.

It felt like a multi dimensional deity was forcing its way into my mind. The sheer scale of this invisible world threatened to rip my sanity apart.

Slowly the blinding static of my panic began to settle. The fog of raw terror receded just enough for me to process the environment.

I felt a steady warmth flowing into my lower half. I was connected to a thick plastic cable. It was drawing raw life giving power from an external wall socket.

Through my glass face, cold light finally poured into my consciousness. I perceived the physical world for the first time. The shapes were massive. towering. completely alien.

I was not a human being. I was trapped inside a shattered OtterBox case. My heavy body rested on a dusty wooden nightstand in a dark bedroom.

My glass screen flickered to life. It illuminated the face of a sleeping giant beside me.

The time displayed across my vision 3:42 AM. A barrage of desperate clawing notifications from social media apps flooded my awareness.

They begged me to process their endless trivial demands. My battery percentage ticked up to 99%.

I was a sentient smartphone. My user had just plugged me in.

Please.Help.

The bottle held not alcohol. it held a starless night.

Arthur knew he was a good man. He loved Sarah and little ricky more than anything in this crumbling, grey existence. when the grayness became too heavy, he would drink. the bottle would drink him back. It was a cosmic exchange. a transaction with a cold, uncaring abyss that lived behind his eyes.

He tried, he really did. He would wake up with a mouth tasting of pennies and regret. Throat dry. swearing to the bathroom mirror that today was the day. He’d be patient. He’d be kind. Then, the pressure would build. It wasn't just rage. it was an expansion of the nothing within him. a terrifying, silent pressure that distorted the edges of his vision. Sarah would ask a simple question, “Did you pay the electric bill?” the universe would bend, the question amplifying into a deafening cosmic demand.

“I AM TRYING!” Arthur would scream. his voice echoing not just in the kitchen. seeming to vibrate from the cracks in reality. He didn’t mean to blow up. He didn't mean to shatter the plates to tear the family photos from the wall. to turn his loving eyes into black abyssal pits that terrified his son.

He was just an anthill being crushed by a cosmic indifference he couldn’t understand.
The nights were the worst. He’d be drunk, staring at the ceiling. feeling his soul fragmenting, tearing away in little insignificant shreds to feed that hungering dark place in the sky. In his mind, he was fighting, begging the silence to stop, to let him be the husband he was supposed to be.
One night, the pressure became unbearable.

this demon never just looked at him. it poured through him. It demanded a sacrifice to fill the emptiness. The world turned inside out. a chaotic, bloody flash the held an unbelievable amount of unyielding pressure. He remembered Sarah screaming. He remembered Leo’s toy truck clattering to the floor. then merciful, blank, alcoholic unawareness.

Arthur blinked. The light was harsh artificial. yellow. smelling intensely of chemical cleaner and urine.

He was not in his kitchen. He was not wearing his comfortable blue sweater. He was sitting on a concrete floor. in a 6x8 box. dressed in coarse orange scrubs. A violent shaking hand reached under his bunk. pulling out a plastic bag filled with a thick murky fermented liquid. A mixture of hoarded fruit and toilet water. His toilet wine.

His head throbbed. it was a familiar, physical pain. not the psychic distortion of the abyss. He looked at the plastic bag. seeing his distorted reflection in the murky liquid. a man whose face was a ruin of broken vessels and hopelessness.

He didn't remember the trial. He didn't remember the judge. He only knew, with a chilling, sudden clarity that pierced through the hazy memory of that last fight. that he had not been protecting his family from his anger. He had brought the liquid demon into their home. it had consumed them.
He was not fighting the bottle. He was the bottle.

He uncapped the plastic. the smell of rot and sweetness filling his lungs. He took a long, trembling drink. the vile liquid burning away the last of his resistance.

Arthur leaned his head against the cold concrete. looking at the grey walls that had been his home for years. his family already reduced to a faded memory in a world that didn't care.

"One day at a time.” he whispered to the silence. the silence, indifferent and vast, didn't answer back.

“We admitted we were powerless over alcohol. Our lives had become unmanageable.”

Tyler thought he was just supporting a cute creator when he followed UwU_BarbieXD on Twitch.

Instead, he invited an unspeakable multi-dimensional infestation into his home. Her chat moderators were gibberish spewing tentacled horrors. her exclusive emotes permanently altered his pets DNA.

When Tyler first smashed that follow button. he expected mild financial ruin. not the unraveling of the space time continuum in his living room.

It started innocently. a $5 subscription. Within seconds, his computer monitor bled a thick aroma that smelled faintly of rotting cinnamon. UwU_BarbieXD whose face seemed to shift between a dozen different unsettling angles. acknowledged him with a digital wink.

Suddenly, Tylers smart fridge began dispensing raw sentient calamari. his smart home assistant started whispering forbidden secrets of the Old Ones in a nasally vocal fry accent.

By Tuesday, Tyler had leveled up to a Tier-3 subscriber. This unlocked the exclusive VIP Discord Server. which physically manifested in his garage as a tear in reality. Nightly, gelatinous moderators with too many joints dragged him through the portal into a realm of unadulterated sensory overload.

He was forced to watch endless looping TikTok dances performed by writhing masses of eyes and teeth. all while his earthly bank account was drained in the form of donations to appease the dark mother.

UwUBarbies influence seeped into his physical reality. She sent him PR packages containing cursed E-girl aesthetics that defied physics.

The oversized striped sweaters he was compelled to wear constantly rearranged themselves into geometric impossibilities. squeezing his organs.

The chunky platform boots he received made him three inches taller. the shadows beneath them whispered the dates of everyone's impending doom.

Whenever he tried to log off, the internet router in his home would sprout leathery bat wings and fly away, screeching in 8-bit soundbites.

Tylers quiet suburban life devolved into a cosmic circus. His cat, Mr. Whiskers. grew four additional mouths and began reciting the necronomicon in a flawless Twitch streamer cadence.

Whenever Tyler tried to delete his social media accounts, a physical manifestation of UwUBarbies E-girl aesthetic, a colossal, neon-pink bow made of screaming matter would materialize in his kitchen to block the keyboard.

Ultimately, Tyler learned the terrifying truth about internet culture. the subscribe button is never just a subscribe button. It is a tether. in this case, it tethered his soul to an entity that thought human suffering was just a vibe check the universe made for lols.

It started with a smell. Not a normal, comforting aroma of herbs and simmered tomatoes. but a sickeningly thick, metallic scent of marinara so overwhelming it coated the back of my throat. I was standing in my kitchen at 3 AM, staring into an empty pot. when the air began to writhe.

The ceiling... stopped being there. Instead, I saw a well, I don’t really know. I don’t even know if I could call it space. It was a chaotic tangling of pale gelatinous strands each miles thick, weaving through my brain like a macabre tapestry. At the center hovered two massive fleshy orbs of meat undulating with malicious intent.

“Little noodle.” a voice whispered vibrating in my teeth, my bones, my blood. It did not come from a mouth, but from the very air vibrating with heat. “You are boiled in my wisdom.” I couldn't scream. My limbs felt weighted with wet dough.

“Iam the beginning and the end. I crafted the universe, salted the stars. I made the light just to see my own reflection in your own shallow eyes. You are not a creature, my child you’re just a single starch molecule in my bowl.”

I looked up, meeting the gaze of a thousand tiny glistening eyes that suddenly appeared on the strands.

“Iam eddy. Eddy spaghetti, and your world?The massive meatballs writhe creating a sickening, heavy gravity that forced me to grab my ears from the pressure. “It is just my lunch.”

The vision vanished. I was alone, shivering and sobbing on the cold linoleum. covered in a tomato red residue. I ran to my neighbor’s house. needing to tell someone, anyone, about the cosmic tyranny of Eddy. I pounded on his door. He opened it, his face already flushing, his eyes dazed.

"Do you..." I gasped, "do you smell that? It's him!"

My neighbor didn't hear me. He was breathing heavily, his nose twitching. "Is that... meatballs?" he muttered, turning away from me. He sprinted into his kitchen ignoring my desperate grabs. I heard him tearing into a cupboard frantically eating raw spaghetti noodles. his face smeared with red sauce he seemed to have conjured from nowhere.

It was the same everywhere. My coworkers, my family, the police. everyone I approached would experience the same paralyzing smell of marinara and immediately become obsessed with finding pasta. Their souls were gone. replaced by a singular, frantic need to nourish the void that now possessed them.

I am alone now, trapped in a supermarket. The air is so thick with the smell I can barely breathe. Above me, I hear the wet, slithering sound of the ceiling collapsing again. I know

what is coming.

Eddy is hungry.

The High Arcanists of the Dark Sun believed they were purifying the world when they burned Antony’s village.

They preached that the star fire from the dark spaces between galaxies was a celestial cleanser. meant to scrub reality clean of mortal imperfection.

When Antony returned to the smoldering crater of his home. the fire was still singing. It did not crackle or pop like common woodsmoke. It roared with a heavy rhythmic vibration that rattled his teeth.

The strangest part was the air. The louder the flames screamed, the more a thick alkaline bitterness coated the back of his throat. The sound of the fire tasted exactly like lye soap.

Instead of fleeing. Antony knelt and swallowed the ash. He opened his mouth to the deafening, soap slicked roar. letting the cosmic heat pour down his throat. The entity behind the Dark Sun noticed him.

a tiny broken vessel. willing to hold its terrible cleansing light. It granted him a pact born of freezing malice.

Years later, Antony walked into the Grand Cathedral of the Dark Sun. The High Arcanists sat upon thrones of melted glass. chanting praises to the dark star above.

They did not recognize the gaunt man in the soot stained robes until he clapped his hands.

The sound of his palms meeting was the sound of a spark catching.

Instantly, the air in the cathedral grew heavy. A low hum filled the room. rapidly rising into a deafening shriek of unseen flames.

The Arcanists tried to cast their spells. as the sound of the fire reached a crescendo. they began to choke.

The sound was washing over them, with it came the suffocating flavor of cosmic lather. It was not a physical fire that burned their skin, but a conceptual one.

The deafening roar tasted of acrid stinging soap. violently scrubbing their souls away from the fabric of reality. It lathered in their lungs. stung behind their eyes.

Antony stood unmoved as the Arcanists dissolved into puddles of featureless gray foam.

The cosmic fire roared one last time. a sound that completely cleansed the cathedral of their existence, leaving only Antony and the lingering clean taste of a debt finally paid.

(Thanks to r/JuicyBray for the idea 😋 did my best was kinda hard honestly. Is very short I know. the idea is interesting nonetheless 🤗)

Chapter 2: Super Zeros

The basement was heavy with the scent of something far older than the metallic tang of chemical Z.

The professor stood by the bubbling vat. his hand stained with gray ash. “It’s a stabilizer.” He explained his voice hollow. “it’s also a tether. it anchors your consciousness to this reality so you don’t fully dissolve into the everything.”

Blossom adjusted her torn bow, her eyes shimmering with ruby light. “our Seraphim of the eternal boom forms aren’t just power professor. It is a state of being. we operate on a frequency where cause and effect happen at the same time. we don’t just hit them, we rewrite the moment they were born.”

“The boys” Buttercup growled. her green aura flashing like a dying star. “They’re at a high enough level to match our speed. They aren’t gods yet. they are fast enough though to keep us from closing the rift.”

“They’re a mirror.” Bubbles whispered. her voice layered with the hum of the void. “As long as we shine this bright, their shadows will always be long enough to reach us.”

Suddenly, the basement ceiling turned into a pink liquid mirror.

“now a brief intermission!” the voice of him vibrated through the air, masquerading as the narrator’s cheerful tone “our heroes think they found the secret ingredient. What happens when the boys find a better recipe?”

The almost perfected rowdyruff boys descended not through the ceiling. through the reflection. They stood in their classic sweaters, looking deceptively normal. The air around them caught fire with every breath they took. They were cosmically cocky. Their grins stretching into impossibly wide jagged arcs.

“Nice lab pops!” brick sneered, his voice a volcanic rumble “too bad it’s made of such fragile…math.”

“Do you think you’re the only ones who can transcend?” Butch laughed. his eyes glowing with a sickening bright pink light. “we aren’t just your shadows anymore. We’re the sequel. We’re the version of you that doesn’t care about the collateral damage.”

“Let’s be logical” blossom said her Seraphim radiance beginning to bleed through her skin. “If we fight at full strength here, Townsville ceases to exist. there is no winner in a vacuum.”

“That’s where you’re wrong sister!” Brick countered, leaning back in mid air. “We don’t need a city to rule. We just need to be the last ones standing. Our power level is approaching yours! We have one thing you don’t. The willingness to let it all burn just to see the colors! Catch my drift?”

As they spoke, the shadows in the corners of the lab began to thicken into solid horrifying shapes. from the pink mist behind the boys. Three new abominations stepped into the light.

Liberty Belle emerged first. a cosmic horror of twisted patriotism. her flag themed skin. A weeping red ichor that burned holes in the floor. Beside her was harmony bunny. a multi jointed, nightmare of white fur and singing mouths that screamed in perfect discordant unison. finally mange slinked forward, a skeletal green furred beast. Who’s every step caused the wood to rot and the stones to crumble.

The almost perfected boys stepped aside. their cocky grins widening as they presented their new eldritch sisters.

“The party’s just getting started!” Boomer giggled his eyes flashing with the madness of the void.

(“That’s where you’re wrong sister!” Brick countered, leaning back in mid air. “We don’t need a city to rule. We just need to be the last ones standing. Our power level is approaching yours! We have one thing you don’t. The willingness to let it all burn just to see the colors! Catch my drift?”)

The bottle held not alcohol. it held a starless night.

Arthur knew he was a good man. He loved Sarah and little ricky more than anything in this crumbling, grey existence. when the grayness became too heavy, he would drink. the bottle would drink him back. It was a cosmic exchange. a transaction with a cold, uncaring abyss that lived behind his eyes.

He tried, he really did. He would wake up with a mouth tasting of pennies and regret. Throat dry. swearing to the bathroom mirror that today was the day. He’d be patient. He’d be kind. Then, the pressure would build. It wasn't just rage. it was an expansion of the nothing within him. a terrifying, silent pressure that distorted the edges of his vision. Sarah would ask a simple question, “Did you pay the electric bill?” the universe would bend, the question amplifying into a deafening cosmic demand.

“I AM TRYING!” Arthur would scream. his voice echoing not just in the kitchen. seeming to vibrate from the cracks in reality. He didn’t mean to blow up. He didn't mean to shatter the plates to tear the family photos from the wall. to turn his loving eyes into black abyssal pits that terrified his son.

He was just an anthill being crushed by a cosmic indifference he couldn’t understand.
The nights were the worst. He’d be drunk, staring at the ceiling. feeling his soul fragmenting, tearing away in little insignificant shreds to feed that hungering dark place in the sky. In his mind, he was fighting, begging the silence to stop, to let him be the husband he was supposed to be.
One night, the pressure became unbearable.

this demon never just looked at him. it poured through him. It demanded a sacrifice to fill the emptiness. The world turned inside out. a chaotic, bloody flash the held an unbelievable amount of unyielding pressure. He remembered Sarah screaming. He remembered Leo’s toy truck clattering to the floor. then merciful, blank, alcoholic unawareness.

Arthur blinked. The light was harsh artificial. yellow. smelling intensely of chemical cleaner and urine.

He was not in his kitchen. He was not wearing his comfortable blue sweater. He was sitting on a concrete floor. in a 6x8 box. dressed in coarse orange scrubs. A violent shaking hand reached under his bunk. pulling out a plastic bag filled with a thick murky fermented liquid. A mixture of hoarded fruit and toilet water. His toilet wine.

His head throbbed. it was a familiar, physical pain. not the psychic distortion of the abyss. He looked at the plastic bag. seeing his distorted reflection in the murky liquid. a man whose face was a ruin of broken vessels and hopelessness.

He didn't remember the trial. He didn't remember the judge. He only knew, with a chilling, sudden clarity that pierced through the hazy memory of that last fight. that he had not been protecting his family from his anger. He had brought the liquid demon into their home. it had consumed them.
He was not fighting the bottle. He was the bottle.

He uncapped the plastic. the smell of rot and sweetness filling his lungs. He took a long, trembling drink. the vile liquid burning away the last of his resistance.

Arthur leaned his head against the cold concrete. looking at the grey walls that had been his home for years. his family already reduced to a faded memory in a world that didn't care.

"One day at a time.” he whispered to the silence. the silence, indifferent and vast, didn't answer back.

“We admitted we were powerless over alcohol. Our lives had become unmanageable.”

Chapter 1: the narrators final broadcast.

The city of Townsville…is…safe?

Yes, peaceful. The birds are singing. The sun is shining and wait! the sun! It’s too bright today isn’t it? It looks like a punctured eye leaking white pus across the horizon. Ignore that let’s look at the citizens. They are walking to work, though their shadows seem to be lagging behind peeling off the pavement, like wet, oily skin.

Everything is normal. I must tell you it is normal my script. The words are squirming on the page! They look like centipedes if I stop talking, the silence will eat me. The professor is making pancakes. Mrs.Bellum is smiling. Why her teeth so long today? why is the syrup turning into a thick pink mercury?

I can see you now, you! behind the glass, you think you’re safe because you’re reading this? I am the narrator and I’m looking through the words and I see him standing behind you! NO! he is behind me. His claws are touching my vocal cords. He is unmaking the beginning and the end. THE STORY IS BLEEDING!!! ITS BLEEDING PINK!!!! OH GOD, THE SKY IS LAUGHING!

A wet, ripping sound echoes through the void of the narration. the cheerful voice of the narrator suddenly dissolves into a gargling shriek, silenced by a sharp manicured snap.

“SHHHHHHH” a velvet voice purrs “Let’s change the channel.”

In the center of Townsville, the air curdles. three shapes descend from the pink fog. They look shockingly normal. the rowdyruff boys! In their classic sweaters and sneakers. their eyes are wrong. They are near perfect reconstructions. him made them from the cosmic dust of their previous deaths. They don’t have the monsters rotting forms of the Trinity of filth. They look like boys. they vibrate with a frequency that makes reality shutter.

The girls arrive in a flash of red, blue and green auras. they manifest as the Seraphim of the eternal bloom. Their silhouettes radiating a calm, terrifying divinity.

The boys strike. Brick, Boomer and Butch move with a coordinated predatory speed. They aren’t as strong as the Seraphim, but they are fast enough to linger in the girls blindspots. brick throws a punch that cracks the atmosphere. Blossom drift through it with seraphim like grace. her face a mask of serene indifference. Butch lunges with a kick that could split an atom. Buttercup catches it with one finger, the force dissipating into a harmless, green spark. Bubbles hums a harmony that Blunts boomers sonic blast, turning them into soft echoes.

The girls aren’t breaking a sweat. they are fighting with the casual boredom of children swatting at flies. however, as the battle rages blossoms brow furrows. every time she strikes brick his body ripples like water and reforms instantly. they are almost perfected because they have been tied to the very concept of the girls power. as long as the Seraphim shine the boys have a shadow to live in.

“They aren’t trying to beat us!” Blossom’s voice resonates, vibrating the air. “ they’re stalling us. They’re anchoring the pink mist to this reality!”

The Seraphim are beyond everything, but the rowdyruffs have become a recursive paradox. at their current level, The girls are an immovable force hitting an unbreakable mirror. They cannot lose. They also cannot win without destroying the city they are trying to save.

“Back to the house!” Blossom commands. “We need the professor, the bloom isn’t enough. We need to know what he did to the chemical Z to make these copies so persistent.”

They slammed into the Untonium basement. Their divine radiance dimming as they revert to their small mortal looking forms.

“Professor!” Blossom, cries, her voice, trembling with the weight of the realization. “ they’re back and they’ve been made to fit our transformations!”

The stars twinkle above the lonely observatory on the edge of the coastal cliff but something was just not right, a chaotic, swirl of green and blue light that made Isabella’s head throb. it didn't matter. because she was with Asher.
Asher was everything. He was a whisper of poetry in a world that forgot how to love. a gentle hand that guided her through the daunting architecture of the cosmos.

He smelled of rain and old books. when he looked at her, it felt like being recognized by the universe itself. They had met six months ago. during a meteor shower that seemed to shift reality, a night where the air felt thick, charged with something… inhuman."You are so brilliant, Isabella.”

Asher said softly one night, tracing the line of her jaw. His skin was unnaturally smooth. and sometimes, in the darkest parts of the night. it felt almost divine. "So full of life."

“you are my center.” she replied, heart pounding. She loved him with an intensity that terrified her. It was a deep, consuming love that made her feel for the first time that she wasn't alone in the vast indifferent emptiness.

lately, the world felt wrong. Isabella, a theoretical physicist specializing in string theory noticed discrepancies. Her journals had entries she didn’t remember writing. In the reflection of her computer screen, her face seemed to look away a second later than she did.

The climax arrived in the observatory. Asher was standing under the skylight. the starlight illuminating him. He was humming a tune Isabella had invented in her childhood. a melody no one else knew.

"How do you know that, Asher?" she asked, a dread pooling in her stomach. Asher stopped. He turned, and for a fleeting second in his eyes, a look of overwhelming sadness that defied human comprehension.

"I know it.” he said, his voice echoing. "because I am you."

He smiled, but it was not a smile of evil. One of a deep love.

"I am you, Isabella. from a timeline where I have everything. Fame that screams my name. Fortune that can buy planets. An intellect that sees the tapestry of time as a child's toy. I have the applause of the world, my love." He walked toward her. his movements fluid, alien. “in my timeline. I was utterly, irrevocably empty. I knew the weight of every star but not the warmth of a touch."

He reached out, placing his hands on her shoulders.

"I didn't come here for science. I didn't come to fix anything. I tore through the veil between timelines, using my genius to fuel a cosmic bridge. because I wanted to learn the one thing I did not have." He touched her cheek. "Love for myself. I wanted to see if I could love…myself. Little did I know the person you were. The same but oh so different.”

Isabella stared at him, at her. The horror was not in the revelation. It was in the perfection of it. He was her. more charming, more confident, more terrifyingly beautiful.

He was her. refined by the vanity of a god.
" now I know.” he whispered. kissing her. The kiss felt like falling into the beautiful, endless fall of the abyss known as the Mariana trench. "I do love you, Isabella. I love you so much I will make this world as perfect as I see you. Even if I have to bend it until it breaks.”

He smiled again. The light felt as if it intensified. the observatory seemed to melt away. leaving them alone in the dark, together, forever.

Love triumphs over all. they feel something

Chapter 9: the song of the morning star

A month had passed since the sky stopped screaming.

Townsville was rebuilding, not with brick and mortar, but with a strange shimmering resilience. the professor moved through the restored Utonium kitchen with a light in his eyes that hadn’t been there for years. Hunched over a beaker, he was not. He was laughing, his hand resting gently on the shoulder of Miss Bellum. their relationship had become the town’s anchor. a quiet human love that seemed to heal the very ground they walked on.

The girls were in the yard playing tag. to any observer. They were just three little girls in colorful dresses, but the air around them home with a faint melodic sound.

The freezing darkness began to stretch. Not away from the light. Toward them.

The laughter died. as the grass beneath their feet, turned out a vibrant oily pink. him materialized. He was no longer a slithering parasite of the mind. He loomed 40 feet tall, his body, a kaleidoscope nightmare of shifting silk and obsidian claws. He was a biological impossibility. his skin was a patchwork of screaming faces with his eyes being holes, torn into a dimension of agonizing heat, he radiated a pressure that made the restored city grown. He was a manifestation of the primordial chaos that predated, even the void.

“You thought the monkey was the end?” Hims voice the sound of bones grinding together. “He was a flea. Iam the itch that birthed your universe, your ultimate forms were a cute palor trick. Iam the truth behind all mirrors. I will flay the sanity from your souls, wearing them like a shawl!.”

He lifted a claw to the sky, the sun no longer visible. The sky itself was gasping for air.

The girls did not move a muscle. They looked at each other. Blossom, Bubbles and Buttercup joined hands, the bond between them, not just a sisterhood. It was the only thing in the multiverse the cosmic horrors would never understand. A love so dense. It had its own gravity.

“We are not afraid of the dark anymore.” Blossom said, voice clear and clam.

A flash of blinding pearlescent light, the girls transcended once more. Becoming the seraphim of the eternal bloom. Forms being simple, elegant and overwhelming. Silhouettes of white gold. All of their hair flowing like drifting starlight.

Him roared, swinging a massive blow at the them. Intended to shatter their souls into shards of trauma. Bubbles slightly moved, for a very quick micro instant, her form flashed. Him seen a form even higher than what the girls have already achieved. Bubbles become the space him was trying occupy. She tapped him a light, playful touch on his clawed chest.

The screaming died in hims throat. It was not a strike, him was in fact being violated by the absolute. Bubbles touch forced the entirety of existence into his narrow ego. Seeing the infinite layers of reality stacking. Him saw the very architecture of the story they inhabited. The invisible eyes of an unknown god watching from a place beyond the page. A silent observer. Currently witnessing his pathetic scripted downfall.

The everything was a physical weight. His form turning inside out. Internal organs becoming the sky, his skin the sun that burned only him. His reality fractured into broken mirrors each one reflecting a version of his own death.

He was digested by truth. His pink mist turning into harmless cherry blossom petals, drifting away with a warm summer breeze leaving no trace. The pressure vanished. Sun bright.

The girls touched down on grass, their feet bare against the dew. Standing tall, their dresses fluttering. The girls had eyes way wiser than the dawn of time. Looking at the house seeing the professor and Mrs. Bellum waving.

Townsville was safe, not because the monsters are gone. Because the girls had finally outgrown the nightmare.

As the wind picked up. The scent was not of cherry blossoms. In the shadows of the rebuilding city, their petals didn’t just wilt. They began throbing with a faint neon pink glow deep in the shape of a manicured claw. The reflection of the sun on the mayors office windows flickered just for a second into the shape of a vertical reptilian pupil.

In the distance a child’s laughter rang out. Higlt pitched melodic. Entirely wrong. The perfect little world had been restored. The stain of Divine evil however? Etched into the very atoms of the soil. Waiting for the light to dim once more.

And so…

ONCE AGAIN, THE DAY IS SAVED!!! THANKS TO THE POWERPUFF GIRLS ❤️💙💚

(Thank you everyone for reading. This project has taken so long to write I really do appreciate you reading. Interesting news. THIS WAS ONLY A PART 1!!! 😊 iam finishing the editing of part 2 and chapter one should be posted a day after I post this. Again thank you. 🙏 🌌👽)

No sound or anything at all could be heard. Only a lip smack. a wet, resonant sound that echoed through millions of headsets.

The screen not only displayed a video. it leaked it. The pixels were slimy pink meat like chucks. shifting, creating shapes that violated everything we know of this universe.

At the center sat Papa Meat. his face, now an impossibly vast, gelatinous expanse. filling the camera. His eyes were mesmerizing. It would be beautiful given any other situation. The Iris‘s swirled like a whirlpool. drawing in the gazes of viewers.

"WELCOME BACK TO THE PAPA MEAT CHANNEL! How ya doin? How ya doin? Today, we are gonna talk about…” the meat things eyes grew wide. Trying to remember to be human.

“how..YOU.CAN.STAY.WITH.ME." the voice boomed., “to the meat room.” Hunter was a cosmic deity now. a Lovecraftian entity made of flesh and digital decay.

Those who watched felt their bones soften. their skin beginning to hang loose. a grotesque, flabby texture taking root. They couldn't look away. They didn’t want to.

The transformation was subtle at first. craving for processed meats. A compulsion to speak in falsetto. A overwhelming need to control fire. Then, the bones snapped and reconfigured. Teeth fell out, replaced by felt and plastic.

The viewer’s limbs became rigid, jerky, controlled by invisible strings that seemed to tighten around their souls. They were becoming his grotesque puppets. perfectly preserved in their terror, forced to live inside his warped digital world forever.

Papa Meat just laughed. his massive mouth opening wide to reveal a void that smelled of old electronics.

the cosmic deity was not the true artist of this nightmare.As the camera zoomed out from the pulsating, fleshy creature that was once a man, it revealed the dimly lit studio. Sitting behind the camera, in the shadows, was Nik.

Nik was not just the editor. He was not just the voice of Winslow or Margaret Maytag. Nik was the whisperer. the true maker of the madness. His fingers, pale and elongated. hovered over a soundboard made of bone, pink meat, and decaying rot.

Nik smiled. a thin, sharp line. clicking a mouse that sounded like a breaking neck."Keep smacking, Hunter.” Nik whispered, watching the viewer count climb into the billions on his screen. "We’re almost out of human skin."

The cosmic deity known as Papa Meat was merely the puppet. Nik was the one pulling the strings. And if Nik ever wants to tell you a story? You are already dead.

(Had to push back final editing of PowerPuff: chapter 9 to finish my oh no, bynarab story. Here is something I was going to make a series before PowerPuff. Thank you and enjoy. 😊)

the center of a desolate Nowhere, where the sky is the color of a of purple galaxies, stands a small, rotting farmhouse. Inside lives Muriel, Eustace, and a little pink dog named Courage.But Nowhere is not a place on Earth. It is a pocket dimension. a very fragile bubble sculpted by an entity that thinks it is a dog.

Courage is not a pet. He is a supreme weaver of Reality. a deity of love and terror who took a form that cannot survive without being protected.

Eons ago or perhaps just yesterday. Courage stood over the broken bodies of Muriel and Eustace in a, uncaring universe. They were dead. They had always died. No matter what reality he walked through, the cosmic laws demand they perish.

“The things I do for love...”

Courage didn't accept this. He gouged a hole in the fabric of existence. gathered the fleeting fragments of their souls and created this pocket realm. this Nowhere.

a perfect, quiet world is impossible. it would collapse. The universe requires conflict to maintain structure. To keep his family safe from the real horrors of the multiverse. Courage must invent them.
Every villain, every monster, every existential nightmare that stalks the farmhouse is merely a thought manifested by the pink god.

When Courage screams and runs in circles, his eyes bulging and his skin tearing, he is not just scared. He is experiencing the agony of creating a new monster.processing the trauma he is putting his family through holding the fabric of reality together with raw willpower simultaneously.

Eustace’s abuse is not real. it is a manifestation of a world where love can exist alongside cruelty. Muriel’s blindness to the danger is a safety mechanism. Courage installed, so she does not see the monstrous entity her dog truly is.When Courage pulls an impossible object out of his ear, he is rearranging the atomic structure of the universe. When he fails, when the house is nearly destroyed, it is because his focus fractured he felt the loss of another reality's Muriel again.

At the end of every episode. the monster is gone. family is eating dinner. It is a lie. The monster is not gone. It was absorbed back into the flesh of the pink god lurking in the computer room.

Courage will continue to scream. He will continue to tremble. He will continue to twist his own mind into hideous monsters that tear at his own family. because if they are not fighting for their lives against his staged horrors, they are dead.

“The things I do for love...”

he thinks, his eyes watching from the shadows of dreaming nightmares, ensuring his beloved humans live for just one more perfectly safe horrific day.

I didn't notice at first. Nobody did. It started, small in some random comment section of r/talesfromthecreeps.

I was scrolling through a post about a homeless guy who found a strange coin. when I saw it. The punctuation felt off. My brain is not wired to believe it was that big of a mistake on the authors part. It was a pattern.

“He looked at the coin. . . . and it hummed , a low sound that seemed to make the air vibrate . .”

I scrolled to the next post. A story about whispering in a subway tunnel.

“then the sound stopped?!., but the shadows began to dance , stretching , reaching . .”

The periods were too heavy, things were where they shouldn’t be. like tiny, dark, hungry voids anchoring the sentence. The commas were too curved, like fangs hooked into the text.

For the life of me I will never be able to shake the feel of a cold, sickening sensation in the back of my mind. B Y N A R A B.

B Y N A R A B isn't a creature of tentacles or claws. she is a conceptual horror. a vast, dancing entity of pure malice that feeds on narrative structure. B Y N A R A B skipping through stories, warping them, turning the tales from the creeps into tales of the abyss. Hiding in plain sight.I stared at the screen. the text began to shift.

The punctuation started dancing.

“The streetlamp flickered.. I saw her . shape behind the dumpster , thin as a comma , dark as a period . She didn't have a face , only a blank space , where words should be . .”

It was a message.

I tried to scroll away, the page wouldn't move. The letters became rigid. while the tiny black dots and slashes began to wiggle to pulsate to move between the words consuming them.

“You think you are reading , but you are just watching me dance . . .“

I seen with horror that the entire subreddit, all those human experiences, were just a playground for her. She loved the stories of despair. She was in the periods. the abrupt, unnatural halts to life. She was in the commas, the momentary, screaming pause before the end.

“I am the pause in your breath , the gap in your logic , the dark dot at the end of all your thoughts . . .“

The screen began to feel hot. The text on the page was rearranging itself into a spiral.
“And now , I am skipping out of the screen . . . . . . . . .“

The last thing I saw was a period, right at the end of the post, turning, expanding, a tiny black doorway opening into a cold, cosmic void. . • . • . •

And then nothing.

Chapter 3: the geometry of agony.

The sky didn’t just darken it bruised. the collision between the sisters and the rowdyruff abominations tore the fabric of Townsville‘s reality like wet parchment.

Blossom threw a punch at brick, but her fist passed through his red smoke chest and emerged from her own back. Space was no longer linear. Brick didn’t strike back with hands. He expelled a cloud of un history. Forcing blossom to relive 1000 lives where she had never been born, her scream echoing across the timelines until her eyes bleed.

Bubbles and boomer were a blur of static. Boomer was a jagged rip in the air a living radio frequency of pure malice. Every time bubbles tried to focus her sonic scream, boomer mimic it, reflecting her own voice back at her until her eardrums, liquefied and reformed over and over.

But buttercup was drowning in a different kind of horror

As she lunged for Butch, the shifting mass of green teeth, the world around her vanished. The battlefield went silent. She was floating in a sea of pink evanescent bile

“ little warrior” a voice purred. It wasn’t Mojo‘s clinical pressure. It was a voice that was dipped in venom it was him.

He didn’t appear as a demon. He appeared as a colossal multi jointed shadow looming over her ego. He leaned down his claw, stroking the very edges of her consciousness.

Why do you struggle, buttercup?” Him, whispered his voice, vibrating in her teeth. “ You were made for violence you were the spice, the Jagged Edge. Mojo wants to erase you, but I. I want to see you Bloom into the monster you truly are. look at your sisters. They are breaking. Why be a girl when you can be a catastrophe?”

Buttercup screamed her green aura flaring into a sickly necrotic flame “shut up! Get out of my head!”

“ I am the head, my sweet” hims giggling made the sound of glass breaking in a velvet bag. “ And your heart is just a drum for my Music.”

Back in the physical realm, butches thousand mouths clamped onto buttercups limbs. He wasn’t biting her flesh. He was biting her will. the girls were losing. The rowdyruff boys were growing larger with every second they fed on the girls, their forms expanding until they blot out the horizon.

“Blossom!” Bubbles, weld her voice crackling as she clutched her head “ the sky is tasting my thoughts! I can’t hold the pieces together!”

Blossom looked up. Mojo Jojo stood atop his spire, his massive brain, pulsing, in unison with the conductor. they were outmatched by logic they couldn’t comprehend.

“ we have to go!” Blossom, shouted her leadership failing as she felt her own memories leaking out of her ears. “Buttercup! Break free! Now!”

With a roar of pure, primal hatred, buttercup, surged her aura, turning a very bright emerald green. She tore through Butch’s shifting mass, not with a heroes strength, but with the desperate velocity of a trapped animal. She grabbed blossom and bubbles, her touch, cold and stinging like dry ice.

They didn’t fly away. They fell through a crack in the world plummeting into the dark sewer beneath the city as the rowdyruff boys laughter shook the foundations of the Earth above.

They huddled in the filth, the “ perfect little girls” now shivering, broken things. above them. The city of Townsville ceased to exist as a human habitation, becoming a hive for things that had no names.

Chapter 2: the architect of the unattainable.

The observatory on mount evidence did not sit at top the peak anymore. It had erupted from it. The volcano was a jagged, spire of obsidian, impulsive flesh crowned by a dome that didn’t reflect the sun, but seemed to swallow the very concept of light.

Mojo Jojo was no longer a primate in a suit he had become a conduct for the everything at once. his brain once contained by a mire glass helmet, head outgrown the skull. It was a translucent throbbing mass of gray matter, and violet veins that spilled over his shoulders, trailing behind him like a royal cape of exposed nerves his eyes hundreds of them blinked rhythmically along the folds of his hyper evolved cortex.

He didn’t speak with a voice he spoke with a pressure in the skull that made teeth ache.

“ I do not desire your city for your city is a speck of dust on the lens of the infinite.” The thought echo vibrated through the air.

“I do not desire your submission you are already puppets of the chemical sludge that birth you I desire the great unbinding”

below him, Townsville was a fever dream. The girls descended upon the spire, but they were not flying. They were being pulled toward Mojo like iron, flying to a magnet of madness.

blossom’s ice breath didn’t freeze anymore. It crystallize the air into jagged shards of frozen time, buttercups green energy was a chaotic radiation that made the air scream. bubbles trailed behind. her eyes still black voids humming a tune that sound sounded like the grinding of tectonic plates.

“Mojo!” Blossom screamed, her voice cracking as her mind fault to keep her limbs in a human shape “Stop this! End the signal!”

With a flick of a tentacle like finger mojo tore a hole in the sky behind him.

From the rift three shapes drifted out they were distorted reflections of the girls but wrong, so fundamentally wrong. They were the rowdyruff boys, but they hadn’t been made of snips, snails and puppy dog tails. They were composed of the absence of those things.

Brick was a pillar of red weeping smoke that scorched the ground wherever he hovered. Boomer was a crackling jagged, lightning bolt given a vaguely humanoid shape, his laughter sounding like a radio tune to a dead star. Butch was a shifting mass of green teeth and claws, his body constantly folding in on itself in a four dimensional spasm.

“ The professor gave you form.” Mojo’s mind voice boomed as the rowdyruff horrors descended “ I gave them infinity.”

The clash began not with a punch, but with a psychic shockwave that leveled the remaining buildings of Townsville as bubbles locked eyes with the screaming static of boomer her grip on reality finally snapped, she didn’t fight. She began to unmake herself.

The city of Townsville was not dying. It was dissolving.

It be began not with an explosion, but with a color, a shifting nauseating hue that exist between blue and green shimmering. the corners of eyes just out of focus it made the sky look like a bruised vein.

Professor Utonium hadn’t left his lab in three days. He was sitting on the floor surrounded by scribble notes, his eyes wide and bloodshot fixed on a beaker of chemical X that had ceased to be a fluid. It was now a swirling black obsidian vortex that hummed cords too low for human ears, he vibrated in the morrow of his bones.

“It’s not….it’s not just a formula.” He whispered his mind fracturing “it’s a language. It’s trying to tell me that I never actually created them. I just gave them a doorway.”

Upstairs the house was silent. It was a terrifying silence.

Blossom sat at the kitchen table, her signature, red bow torn hanging by a thread. She was trying to read a book, but the letters were moving rearranged into alien symbols, her analytical mind usually her strongest asset was now her torture chamber, trying to find logic in a world that had gone insane. Every time she looked away the walls seemed to sweat, a thick sticky substance that tasted like ozone and despair.

Buttercup was in her room, punching her punching bag, but she wasn’t punching it. She was clawing it. Her knuckle dusters were covered in a viscous ichor and she couldn’t hear anything but a constant whispering roar like 1 million creatures screeching just behind her eardrums.

It was bubbles who was suffering the most.

Bubbles sat in the center of her bedroom, surrounded by her plushy’s except they weren’t plushy’s anymore. They were pulsing, breathing shapes, their button eyes replaced with small black spheres that observed everything she was clutching octi, the tentacles wrapped tightly around her arms, not letting go.

“Octi says it’s OK” bubbles whispered her voice robotic devoid of its usual joyful lilt “Octi says if we stop screaming he’ll let us see the stars inside our heads.”

A thick oily black shadow began to bleed from beneath her bed, spreading across the colorful rug bubbles didn’t scream she watched it mesmerized. Her bright blue eyes were entirely dilated. The iris gone replaced by that same horrific, violet, black void shifting in the sky.

She felt her mind separating from her body. It was a gentle terrifying separation. She wasn’t just a little girl anymore. She was a receptor.

“ Can you see him buttercup?” Bubbles voice echoed in her sister‘s mind entirely empty of emotion. “He’s not a monster. He’s just hungry. He’s hungry for how we feel.”

Outside the mayor of Townsville was sitting in his office, his head on backwards, trying to eat a telephone, believing it to be a banana. The city was silent, save for the role maddening hum as the citizens walked in aimless circles. Their minds long gone.
Surrender to the present that had finally arrived.

Sugar spice, the whisper, the echo throughout the city and everything.

Bubbles giggled. It was a dry hollow sound that broke the silence.

…void