Halaos was in a foul mood.
Of course, when it came to moods, foul was pretty much all he was. Be it a prophetic yet irritatingly vague dream, the senseless bullshittery of his eleven "Friends", or simply if the wind blew the wrong direction, he never seemed happy.
But today his mood was especially foul. He hadn't hat the best night's sleep, for it was fitful and rife with all manner of disturbing dreams.
Of course, the Captor line had never been very strong in the mental health department. His father was plagued with the same nightmares, only now that he's blind, he has to see them over and over again as they replay in his mind.
Sucks to be him.
Halaos was a computer whiz, for which he took after his father. Unlike his father, however, his physique was rather bulky. Indeed, he was strong - He and Zehhak used to fight homemade robots together, back before they stopped talking to each other - and he worked out as much as he could. He had long, black, oily hair, even though he was not a type who looked good with it. It sort of draped over his head and shoulders like a towel. He had two pairs of horns, the outermost pair much larger than the innermost.
It was two days before the Burst, but not even it's harbinger knew that.
A more immediate, though substantially less dire concern was on his mind. A reproachful glance at his computer monitor revealed that someone was trying to pester him on Trollian. He sighed, and walked towards his computer.
Halaos did not really bother to organize his computer's hard drive - a habit that his father chided him for endlessly. His desktop was littered with .~ATH and .^CAKE codes. When he wasn't exercising his mind and body, he was coding. Addiction is a powerful thing. You wouldn't understand.
He clicked the flashing notification on his screen.
He regretted it instantly. The auditory assault that issued forth from his speakers and cascaded into the room thanks to Trollian's new face - to - face chat feature threatened to blow out his stereo system.
"HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-" There was a pause for breath, then with a gasp in continued, "...AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSS
Through ground teeth, Halaos answered, "What."
"Why don't you play with us?" She asked in a genuinely creepy manner.
"Don't ever," growled Halaos, "ask me that way again."
"Okay," She beamed through her grubcam, showing the shit - eating grin that he despised so much, "You should FLARP with us."
"No," asserted Halaos, "I shouldn't."
"Yeah!" She said, still grinning like a psycho, "It'll be a great bonding activity! All twelve of us. Just think of it."
He manner was perkier than a cup of coffee after being drop - kicked out of bed. Usually, her qualities were endearing to her fellow peers. Halaos was the only exception. "If you don't stop constantly pestering me," said Halaos, "I'll block you."
The fool girl gasped, her red glasses and shining teeth reflecting her screen, "You're no fun!"
"I can be a lot less fun if you don't leave me alone," scowled Halaos.
"Oh, you suck!"
There was a Blip sound from his computer, and her grim visage disappeared from his screen. In her place was a box that said "graphineConcerto has ceased trolling thirdAdversary at 8:11"
Halaos stared at his monitor for a moment, then closed Trollian.
It was going to be a long day.
Halaos was in a foul mood, as usual.
To him, yelling out his name at fifty decibels over Trollian was the epitome of annoyance, even though everyone else seemed fine with it.
The girl was annoyed by Halaos' constant pessimism. Talking to him was like trying to joke with a literal - minded hair - trigger tempered computer nerd. That is, in fact, exactly what it was.
The girl sat on the floor in the middle of her respiteblock, grubtop seated in her lap. Her name was Ryalin Pyrope, or, in more hushed tones, the Crazy Girl Who Lives In A Tree. It was true: Her mother had, in fact, built her hive in a tree, which she also took the liberty of decorating by hanging little stuffed toys by their necks from the tree branches. Her mother had painted every block in the hive bright cherry red, which would have been a total assault on Ryalin's eyes, if she were not blind.
Both mother and daughter were blind - Ryalin and her mother learned to "See" colors through smell and taste. Ryalin liked the novelty of this ability, but her mother seemed to enjoy it far too much - Ryalin would often catch her mother licking the walls or the glasses she wore that matched her own.
Despite her vision impairment, Ryalin liked to draw. Fashion sketches, diagrams, fanart of famous troll media, or just whatever random shit popped into her mind at any given moment. She's been complemented on her skill a good number of times, but Ryalin was never particularly satisfied with her work. Her floor was strewn with crumpled - up half-finished sketches.
She wore her hair long, though unlike Halaos, she actually looked good with it. Her horns were short and sharp, like a carat shape. She wore a black shirt and grey shorts, the former decorated with her symbol, ♎, In cyan like her blood.
Ryalin liked to think on her feet. Today was no exception - she had best pester someone else, lest she succumb to the unfathomable boredom of sitting on her floor all day, doing nothing.
Let's see, who next? No, no, hell no, maybe, no - Ah ha! Him! Perfect.
Her mouse hovered over a username in purple script: terrestrialCataclysm. The perfect victim. She clicked "troll". He didn't have a grubcam, so she had to resort to text-based playful antagonism.
He answered immediately.
TC: hey ray
GC: DON'T C4LL M3 TH4T
TC: *rolls eyes* k ray
TC: hey that rhymes
TC: so hey, whats up
GC: 1T'S PR3TTY GOOD. 1 W4S JUST T34S1NG GRUMPY N3RD K1D
TC: YOUO mean Hal?
TC: don't do that. he's sensitive, you know that
GC: WHY DO3SNT H3 L1KE US?
TC: He does.
TC: He's just antisocial
GC: SO M4K3 H1M OP3N UP?
TC: Maybe he'll be COMPLELLED to open up if you stop antagonizing him.
GC: STOP 1T W1TH THE TSB4HJ M3M3S 4LR34DY
GC: 4ND B3S1D3S, 1M JUST T34S1NG
TC: He's not used to it. You've seen he doesn't take those CONKSUCK jokes well.
GC: 1 W4RN3D YOU 4BOUT TH3 M3M3S BRO
GC: 1 TOLD YOU DOG
TC: Lol you Hippocrate
GC: YOUR M3M3 1S B4D 4ND YOU SHOULD F33L B4D
TC: Who made your CONKSUCK memes anyway?
TC: TROLL IMMIGRANTS?
GC:1'M L4UGH1NG SO H4RD R1GHT NOW
TC: I assure you the insane laughter is entirely mutual.
GC: NOT SUR3 1F S4RCH4SM
GC: OR S1NC3R1TY
TC: I literally cried with laughter
TC: God damnit.
GC: OH WOW
GC: S33 Y4
terestrialCataclysm ceased trolling graphineConcerto at 8:13
The boy whose last name was Makara leaned back in his chair. Ryalin was fun to talk to, if a little grating.
The boy's name was Crikak Makara, though no one ever calls him Crikak, since he hates the name. Crikak would rather be called Makara, Thank - You - Very - Much.
He sighed, and rested his hands on his desk. He had, in fact, laughed himself to tears, which smeared teh juggalo makup that his father had forced him to wear. He had better fix it before his father came home.
He wore a large black afro on his head, which again his father had imposed on him. Two tall horns poked out of it like gopher from their burrows. He wore a black shirt emblazoned with his symbol, ♑, The same purple as his various bodily fluids. Larg bell - bottom jeans hung from his hips, smothering his feet.
Makara was quite a sight.
Resting against the wall was a unicycle, again imposed by his father. Problem was, his feet were too short to reach the pedals. Of course, he didn't give up. Instead, he welded horns by their bells to the pedals, then glued plates to their spherical pumps, so the added bonus was whenever he pedaled, a long honk would emerge. Not for the first time, the engineering feat would earn his father's pride. Even for the drinking, and for their constant disagreements, Makara loved his father more than anything.
Even if he scared him shitless.
Hanging on the far wall was Makara's magnum opus - Troll Sweet Bro And Hella Jeff, or TSBAHJ for short. Every incredibly shitty comic in the series so far was pinned to his wall. The jpeg artifacts, the comic sans font, the horrible html coding. It was all here. It was full of non-sequitir and iron - a dramatic contrast to his fathers more practical slapsinc and puns.
TSBAJH was the lesser of Makaras devotions - He and three of his eleven friends were working on a game. Halaos was coding, while Ryalin was working on art and such. Leijon was writing the story, and Makara worked on the nuances of the many elements of the game.
...Or they would, if they had actually started. Even Makara had no idea what the game was. But, for some reason, it felt important.
He should have tried to talk about the game, but every time he brought it up, the subject was changed, quick as that.
A notification appeared on his computer screen. Speaking of whom...
androgenousCourtesant began trolling terrestrialCalaclysm at 8:15
AC: Hi! :33
AC: What are yOu up tO? WOrking On the game, I trust?
TC: No. I'm starting to lose faith, to be honest.
AC: What?! NO! YOu can't! We'll see this thrOugh tO the bitter end!
TC: You promise?
AC: Better... ;33
TC: No cat puns, no cat puns, no cat puns, no cat puns...
AC: I PURRMISE!
TC: Curse you, adorable cat woman.
TC: I hope the game starts before I drop dead of old age.
TC: Or that someone else will even bother to remember before that happens.
AC: Aww, pucker up!
AC: I mean, Purrk up!
AC: How embarrassing!
TC: Let us never speak of this again.
Almost despite himself, Makara found himself blushing.
AC ARe yOu sure yOu want the characters to have user - defined purrsonalities?
TC: Yes. They are the ultimate relatable character.
AC: I dOn't knOw! It's awful hard to write a stOry withOut characters!
TC: I think you can do it.
TC: You're a good writer.
AC: Aww, thanks :33
Makara took a hearty swig of Faygo, which before the conversation sat next to his computer.
TC: Your welcome.
AC: I think yOu are full Of gOOd ideas to be purrfectly hOnest!
AC: Sure! Just dO yOur thing, and yOu'll be famOus in nO time.
TC: Well, if you say so...
AC: I dO say sO!
TC: Okay. Thank you.
There was a long pause after this. Makara did not type anything, not did his co-conspirator. He glanced at a painting easel on the other end of his room, covered in scrawlings related to the game, its level system, enemies, plot. Yes, maybe he could finish the game. He wasn't after fame though - He wanted to bring joy to people, with other methods than his father.
TC: Are you working on the game?
TC: You aren't are you.
AC: I'm sOrry, but I can't find the time.
Makara suppressed a surge of anger that swept over him like a tidal wave. He clenched his fists and breathed deeply for a moment, then resumed typing.
TC: I can't do this without you
AC: OOh, I'm sOrry! My Other friends just keep pestering me to flarp with them. I really can't find any time!
TC: It's okay, I just wish people would work with me here.
It really wasn't okay, but he couldn't stay angry at her.
AC: I'll make time tOmOrrOw! I prOmise. NO cat puns, just to shOw I'm seriOus.
AC: GOtta gO! AfOrementioned bugging just resumed.
TC: Alright. See you tomorrow?
AC: Sure! :33
androgenousCourtesant ceased trolling terestrialCataclysm at 8:18
Makara placed his face in his palms, only to realize that his hands were sweaty. He took them away, and looked at them. Grey face paint smeared on his slightly darker hands.
He got up from his desk and made his way to the bathroom to reapply his make-up.