Doodles

AMAZING

so ummm… what the fuck is going on

Thoughts about the WAIA

Honestly I would love to do more theorizing surrounding the WAIA but there’s not a lot of theorizing to do. 

It’s pretty out in the open. I don’t think the FNAF connection is super lore-steeped; I think it’s just Mark poking fun at his King of FNAF status. What I do think is lore-steeped is the WAIA’s responses, which are super on-the-nose but not in an overbearing way. This is direct storytelling done right, and I think that Mark is extremely talented to be able to pull it off.

HUGE SPOILER WARNING FOR THE REST OF THIS POST.

In the “He said...potato salad?” video, the WAIA says:

“A man goes to a party. This man met an old friend. The two friends share some wine. The two friends played a game. The most dangerous game. I didn’t know the gun was loaded. I didn’t know. 

Was it my fault? Was it?”

This got me so hard the first time I played through, and I picked “No.” I picked “No” because in my mind, Wil is not at fault for Actor Mark’s crimes. Wil is the victim of cruel manipulation and the entity in the House; he didn’t make a decision to kill Actor Mark. He wanted so badly to reconcile that he was willing to play “the most dangerous game” to get him back. And when it all went wrong, he couldn’t bear it.

What got me more than anything was the dialogue in “No.” : 

“You can’t change the past. You can tell all the stories you want to tell; it won’t change what happened. You can’t rewrite the past; if you live in fantasy forever, you’ll lose yourself in the story.”

This just about made me cry, and when Wilf’s voiceover mentions that “he’s a perfect scan of my noggin,” it made it worse. 

This is Wil’s thoughts untethered from the influence of the House and the breaks in time and space he continues to experience. This is Wil, as close to sane as he can get, and he’s just...accepting. 

He knows he can’t change anything, and that becoming Wilford Warfstache, telling Wilford Warfstache’s story instead of his own, can’t fix it and instead means he’s slowly losing William Barnum. 

Or maybe that he’s already lost him.

okay but every face in this image shows a different emotion. some versions of mark are just shocked to see you - they might even be excited. the mark in the bottom left looks scared of you. the mark on the right side of the core looks upset.

and the mark at the control panel looks cold, and done with you.

this scene feels powerful to me for some reason??

idk just the thought of mark not giving up on building the warp core and spending the endless time doing it

just hits me right in the feels

Did I just get the perfect ending on the WAIA first try? Yes, yes I did.

Did I also go back and get literally every ending? Yes, yes I did.

FUCK, Mark, why are you so good at tearing my heart out?!

Forget All You Know (on Wattpad) http://my.w.tt/UiNb/HwzajNbWGv Think of all the things we've shared and seen But don't think about the way things might have been... What might have been? The Angel in Hell is given another chance.

I Dare You. (A WKM Story.)

(A/N: LONG ASS ONESHOT I’M SORRY I’M STILL OBSESSED.)

Every town has their ghost stories, and their haunted places. Some have huge hotels full of sordid affairs and midnight rondesvous gone wrong, some have old farm houses in the backcountry, steeped in the folklore of the hills and the mists of the early mornings. Los Angeles is no exception. There's no shortage of ghosts and spectres haunting the City of Angels, no want for dark pasts and dangerous deeds in this hotbed of Hollywood fame and infamy. Such a case of infamy is that of Markiplier Manor, the huge, sprawling estate of actor Mark Fischbach in the hills that used to house the most influential people in town, back in the early '10s. No one really knows what went down on October 11th, 2017, and the few days that followed. All we had to go on was a pseudo-reporter's rambling blog on tumblr and a few short articles with fantastically gruesome headlines.

"3 Found Butchered in Markiplier Manor." "Public Despair at the Discovery of Mayor Damien Noir's Mutilated Corpse." "Unstable Colonel Ford Prime Suspect in the Murders of Markiplier Manor."

Everyone had a guess. Everyone had a theory. But no one knew the truth. No one knew exactly why, on the 14th of October in 2017, the butler from the manor had come running into the LAPD Headquarters, screaming about demons and murder. What everyone did know, however, was that when the police, with sirens blaring, went to investigate the butler's claims, they'd been sickened to find three rotting corpses scattered around the manor, in various states of dismemberment and decay. They said that the mayor's body was the worst, looking like it'd been torn limb from limb by animals, almost without a single bone that wasn't broken, his tortured form found on the balcony outside the foyer. Then there was the body of a woman later identified as Fischbach's former wife, Celine, found in a small room upstairs, surrounded by occult items. It was practically perfect in appearance, but when they tried to do an autopsy, they found her insides had been practically liquified. The last body was the most tame, a detective by the ironic name of Abraham Lincoln, shot through the right side and left to die slowly at the top of one of the staircases. It was the worst murder case they'd seen in years. They couldn't get anything sensible out of the butler, who, according to his friends and family, had been a perfectly sensible man before the tragedy. But now he was spouting nonesense about "dens of evil" and "forces far beyond our understanding". They did manage to get the names of the other people present at the poker party out of him, and found everyone but the colonel and another party member whose name was never given to the public, and a statement as to the death of Mark Fischbach on the 11th. Mark's body was never found. Of course, the media had opinions as to what had actually happened.

I mulled over the headlines and the stories again in my head as I pulled onto the long gravel driveway, overgrown with weeds and bramble in the years of disuse. A stupid thing had led me to my dismal destination today: a dare. A simple, ridiculous dare among friends, and the fatal phrase, "You're not chicken, are you?" I was never one to turn down a good dare, and honestly, I'd never been particularly superstitious. The worst thing I feared was the cold of this year's record-breaking October nights, and the animals that had likely taken up residence in the absence of human habitation. Stepping out of my borrowed vehicle and shouldering my duffle bag of provisions, I surveyed the area, and my first thoughts were, I won't be lacking in places to camp out for the night, that's for sure. I trekked up to the rusting gate and chucked my belongings over it, climbing (with much difficulty) after them and landing about as gracefully as they had. Excellent, I thought as I rubbed a bruise on my knee, only another thousand yards to walk before I'm actually inside this place. The front garden was beautiful, even in its wild state. There was something to be said for the mossy stonework and the dry fountains, a kind of dystopian beauty that a city-slicker like me seldom gets to see, that made the walk bearable, and before I knew it, I was at the wide front doors, testing the handle to see if it was locked. Fortune was on my side, or so I believed, and I found it open, so stepped into the once-lavish front hall. The ceilings were high and covered in cobwebs, and nearly every surface was caked with a layer of dust thick enough to be snow, including a shattered mirror whose shards glittered on the table below it. The sight of my own exercise-reddened face in it gave me an unexpected chill, which I chalked up to the weather hastily, and I decided to move on. As I walked, I glanced up the stairs, wondering if these were the ones that'd once seen a detective's final breaths, and the panicked screams of a man running for his life. What had these walls seen, I wondered? If they could talk, what tale of terror would they recount? My eyes wandered into the foyer as I passed, and I was forced to stop and double take. Lines of weather-worn yellow caution tape lay strewn around a body's outline in front of the fireplace. This time, I accepted the chill as my own reaction. There'd been no mention of a fourth body. Was this where Fischbach had met his end? Was this the place where the detective had sussed out the murderer, and decided to confront him, thereby sealing his own fate? I didn't think I wanted to know the answer, and I decided to try to look for a bedroom, as it was getting late. I climbed the stairs by phone-flashlight, careful not to touch the railings as I went. A dark stain on one wall had me frozen on the top step. That was the unmistakable stain of blood, and the discolored wall around it looked almost like an outline of its own. I had a moment of silence for the fallen man, then moved quickly past his old resting place to the hall beyond, and into an open bedroom out of the line of sight of the stairs. Perhaps I'd sleep better if I couldn't see it; I'd underestimated my own detachedness. The room I'd entered looked as if it'd been through hell. There were books and papers all over the floor, the musty bed was in total disarray, and a table in a nook on my left had been overturned, scattering a few broken picture frames to the ground. I dared to look at one of the pictures, and found smiling back at me the same faces that'd smiled out of the articles proclaiming their deaths and disappearances. The mayor, the colonel, the actor, and the ex. Looking away quickly, I decided to set up camp and drown my fears in a few hours of portable game system distraction. My bag thudded dully down beside the bed, and I thudded dully down beside it, rummaging and humming an old happy tune to break the silence. I couldn't help but feel that something was inherantly wrong with this place, but I brushed that aside. I had no use for silly superstition and fanciful interpretations of old stains and pictures. After all, this place had been empty for going on fifty years. The killer was either long gone or long dead; I had nothing to worry about.

It was 2:15am when I squinted at my dying phone's screen, startled out of my uneasy sleep by a loud thud downstairs. "It's an animal," my brain told me lazily. My heart, however, wasn't listening, and was instead trying to leap out of the frosted glass doors to freedom and safety. Sighing, I stood and stretched. It looked like tonight was going to be an exploring night rather than a resting one. I pulled the real flashlight out of my bag, grabbed the extra batteries and stuck them in my pocket, put my phone in there with them, on power-saving mode, and went for a walk, carefully avoiding the small room to my right, and the stairs down the hall. This place was definitely living up to the status of the word "manor": it seemed like an endless maze of halls and bedrooms and bathrooms and studies and media rooms and dining halls. Even the kitchen was enormous, and from its window I could see the vast balcony and the backyard that seemed more like a safari jungle, the green-watered swamp of a pool its oasis and the dilapidated golf-holes its plains of the Sarangheti. I wandered without thinking for the most part, trying to distract myself from the ever-lasting night with searching games. Where were the drinks stored (I didn't go down into the wine cellar), where were the games played (I didn't touch the royal flush still sitting on the poker table)? This worked until I found myself pushing open a door and the beam of my light fell across what I can only describe as a crime show "murder board". Red yarn connected various fading, fragile Polaroids of a bygone age's people, some of whom I recognized from the news, some of whom were strangers to me. Yellowing articles and criminal profiles were thumb tacked to the cork boards that lined the walls. Looking a little closer, I could see that they were not the sensationalizations that I carried in my phone's picture gallery, but various stories of the lives of the victims. An old campaign poster that bore Mayor Noir's reserved, smiling face was connected to an article about one of Mark's movies and its failure in the box office. A front page bearing the title "Safari Hunt Gone Wrong!" sat in front of a copy of the marriage certificate for the Fischbachs. Even the faces of the chef and the butler glared judgmentally back at me, their records sitting beside them as if to ask what my credentials were to enter this dangerous estate. What investigation had led the detective here, then? I frowned at some of the hand-written notes peppering the boards, but I couldn't make heads or tails of it. The most I could get was that Fischbach had been in financial trouble, and the mayor had apparently been working with him on...something. The colonel, it seemed, had always been a bit of a wild card, and perhaps had been a very dangerous man; several of the notes seemed to accuse him of the murder of Mark Fischbach. Oddly, none of the other murders were mentioned. Celine Fischbach was notoriously absent. Another thud, close to my room this time, shocked me out of my investigation, and I hid as I recognized the sounds of footsteps. I was technically trespassing, though who owned the land now I didn't know. Perhaps my friends had thought it funny to call the police and send them to pick me up. I decided that they'd pay for that later, but my main concern was staying out of sight. I ducked under the desk and held my breath as the footsteps came into the room. I didn't think about it until much, much later, when I was recounting the tale to my awestruck friends over mediocre school lunches, but from the moment I heard the first steps, a high pitched whine had droned in the background, as if some feedback from a cellphone on a cheap radio were being played constantly.  At the time, I was more focused on not making a noise as what I assumed was a cop wandered around the room, stopping every once and a while, and occasionally pacing on one end of the room, as if he were studying something on that wall. There was one point when the man had stood so near to the desk that I'd been able to see him in profile, but not being able to use my flashlight without giving myself away, I hadn't seen much other than the outline of a man in a suit, with disheveled hair falling in a sweep over the left side of his face, the only side I could see. Oddly, it was as if he were giving off a little light of his own, a red and blue hue defining some of his smaller features, like his stubbley jaw and the creases in the elbow of the otherwise immaculate suit. Perhaps he'd brought something with him to light his way, some weird lamp or flashlight. Maybe it was his phonescreen. Either way, this was a detective, I guessed then, fervently ignoring the sense of wrongness that radiated from him like waves, though why they'd sent him and not a normal beat cop, I didn't know. My heart almost stopped when I was almost certain I heard him speak, a low, gruff voice that seemed to have too many layers, but it was so quietly that I couldn't tell whether it'd been "You've stayed" or "Betrayed." I was certain that I heard, "Never again," though. By this point, keeping myself from shivering was a constant, conscious effort.

"It's quite amusing to me that you think you can hide by simply being out of my sight and 'keeping quiet.'" This time, there was no guesswork. This time, my heart did stop, and I couldn't tell whether I was going to shit myself or scream. But the man didn't seem to care that I was there. He simply seemed to want to acknowledge my presence, as if out of a want not to be rude in ignoring me. "Stay, if you like. Read all of these old lies. Make guesses, everyone else seems to have done so already. Let's see if you can get any closer to the truth of the famous 'Murders at Markiplier Manor'." I could practically hear the cold smile leaving his voice, and it was as if part of it had dropped half an octave, if that makes any sense. "Or you can go now, and forget you ever saw this place. Pretend it's just another mystery tale to tell each other while you waste your time with meaningless relationships." It went back to the pitch it'd been before, and the cold smile was back in it, if backed by a bit of bite this time. "It is, of course, your choice."

He never said another word that I heard, and it seemed to take forever for him to leave, but when he had gone, I stayed hidden for another long minute, until I was sure he had left the house (though I ignored that fact that I never once heard a door open). I stood shakily, flicking  my flashlight on again, and froze. There was only a single set of footprints in the room, and that was the diamond-patterned prints of my own Chucks in the dust on the old wood floor. I don't think I'd ever run faster in my life, or broken more rules of the road, than I did as I got the hell out of that place.

Everyone always asks me what I think I saw. Was it a ghost? Or a demon? Maybe a shade of the mayor, or of the actor? All I can respond is...I don't know. I don't know what I saw, or what spoke to me, or what those words meant, in the long run. And I'm certainly no closer to a positive ID of the murderer than anyone else. But there're certain things I never say, like how I don't think the butler was mad anymore, and how it was almost as if I could hear voices calling as I left, the strange red-and-blue light never completely dissipating until I had scrambled back over the front gate and shakily started my car, not daring to even turn on the headlights until I had made it back off of the estate, just praying and following the gravel path back to the main road by memory and feel. If you want a solid opinion, then here's what I think: I think I never want to know what I encountered, and that I never want to encounter it again. I think I'm going to follow his advice, and let the mystery stay unsolved. 

After all, it makes for a damn good story, doesn't it?

Through the Looking Glass

((A/N: I’m really hyped about Anti’s appearances on Jack’s channel and Halloween and all the creepy things, so horror story word vomit happened. Enjoy.))

"Anyways, thank you guys so much for watching this episode. If you LIKED it, PUNCH the like button IN THE FACE, LIKE A BOSS! AND high fives all around," Jack almost giggled as he did the silly sound effect while he high-fived the air. "Thank you guys, and I will SEE ALL YOU DUDES...IN THE NEXT VIDEO!" He punched the air and finally let himself start laughing as he stopped the recording, shaking his head. No tough edits in this one, which was always nice. He walked over to the computer and saved the video, ready to go up tomorrow. His eye twitched and he frowned, catching a glimpse of his face in the dark of the monitor as he switched it off. Did it look...different? No, that's ridiculous. But still...perhaps he should check over the footage, just to be safe. He watched through, studying it with a frown. Everything seemed to be going fine, just a silly little game, some goofy ragdoll physics he'd wanted to try out that had turned out to be hilarious. He watched himself fail a level over and over again, still having fun because the fails were so funny.

And then his face cam glitched. A face was superimposed over his. It was just for just a couple of frames, grainy and glitched out, but...definitely his own face. Terrified. Absolutely, horribly afraid, as if he were screaming, but there was no noise to accompany the face. He watched those few seconds again, at half speed, then again at a quarter speed. He seemed to be reaching for the camera, as if he were going to get up and grab it, or run out of frame, and he was mouthing "NO!"

He knew he had definitely never done that. He shook his head and sighed as he glanced over at a mirror in the corner of the room. It was a present from a fan that he'd forgotten to put away, with a really intricate little frame that looked like it was made of pixels, pixelated Sams sitting in two opposing corners. He smiled remembering the girl who'd given it to him, how she'd shakily explained that she'd spent a long time putting it together and hoped it'd get to him in one piece. He'd given her a hug and thanked her again and again, even showing it off in a video he'd made as soon as he'd gotten back from...whatever event he'd been at. He didn't remember that now. His focus was more taken with the fact that his reflection wasn't smiling.

In fact, it was wearing the same terrified expression he'd seen in the video, his hands banging on the glass, fists bloodied from the effort. He was mouthing something that might have been "You bastard!", over and over again, with a few "Let me out!"s and "No!"s mixed in.

The him that wasn't in the mirror chuckled and sighed. "Oh, Jackaboy. You ruined my recording." He knelt down on one knee, picking up the mirror. "Still trying to get out? Jesus, you're an fuckin' idiot." He leaned closer, making the reflection shrink away reflexively before glaring at him and yelling curses he couldn't hear. His voice was unnaturally quiet. "It took me weeks to manage it. And that was with their support, and you stupidly egging them on. But you? Oh, Jack. They don't even know you're gone. And I'm having so...much...fun. Why would I leave?" He laughed as he stood and walked out of the room, dropping the mirror on the way out.

In the cracked mirror, Jack continued to scream, and beat his fists. Very faintly, almost as if it were leaking through the cracks, Jack's voice jumped as if it'd been badly edited, gltiching in and out. "Anti! No, no, no! Let me out, you bastard, you son of a bitch, dammit, let me out! ANTI!"

New. (A Regeneration fic)

Pairing: Ten/Rose

Rating: G

Light. Blinding, painful light. Burning through every part of him, he can feel it. In his hands, his face, his body, a burning. He's shrinking, stretching, compressing, every proportion changing, and burning.But he's seen it all, done it all before. He's old, impossibly old. But he's also new, untested, young. He's seen everything and nothing, knows everything and nothing, met a million people and not even one.Suddenly, the light is over, and he stumbles, adjusting quickly to a new body. Difficult to move, to balance. He pulls air into new lungs, his first breath. New eyes search across the room, taking in the familiar unfamiliar place all over again. But something's different this time.

There's a girl, small and blond, in a pink jacket, staring at him with wide hazel eyes. She's frightened, and shocked, and tired...and the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. She's his Rose, and he died for her, he remembers suddenly. He died to save her because...This mind acknowledges the feeling, at least to itself. That's different...He likes it. Anyway...he cares about her. He cares so much about her, and she's alright. Good. Job well done then.

Wait, wait, wait, he was in the middle of something. What was he doing?

He was saying something. They were going to go somewhere. OH! But he ought to introduce himself again, as he's changed, even if he doesn't quite know who "himself" is yet. He could be anyone now. What what he like? All he knows  right now is the Rose, Rose Tyler, is so important, and he ought to introduce himself.What if she doesn't like him anymore? The thought occurs to him suddenly. He's changed. What if she hates him now?

What is that little feeling? In the pit of his stomach? Is he...nervous? That's different. Nervous. Alright.

Say something! Alright.

"Hello. Alright-oh."He feels around his new mouth. It felt awkward, less room."New teeth, that's weird. Anyway, where were we?"

Dogs. No noses. The planet, not the city.

"Oh yes!"

His first grin with this face, and it's for her, all wide and cheeky, teeth and tongue. He hopes she likes it.

"Barcelona!"

Do You Trust Me? Pt. 5

A/N: THE END.

Link to Pt. 4: http://skinnyscottishblokeaddict.tumblr.com/post/155731272537/do-you-trust-me-pt-4

Link to Pt. 3: http://skinnyscottishblokeaddict.tumblr.com/post/155699231442/do-you-trust-me-pt-3

Link to Pt. 2: http://skinnyscottishblokeaddict.tumblr.com/post/155686403892/do-you-trust-me-pt-2

Link to Pt. 1: http://skinnyscottishblokeaddict.tumblr.com/post/155650933267/pizsospa-cmon-little-dude-you-can-trust-me

"GO! JUST GO! RUN!" You couldn't if you'd wanted to. But you couldn't move to help him either. He screamed again, clutching at his head, doubling over on his knees, his whole body glitching out. "No...NO!" And he collapsed. "JACK!" You ran toward him, all fear and panic, all thought for your own safety gone. You just needed to know he was okay. Your knees thudded sharply against the ground and you cupped his face with your hands. "Jack, please. Please wake up. Please. You can't leave me. You can't leave them. They need you, Jackaboy, c'mon." He grunted weakly and you let out a short sob. "Knew you could...do...it..." He was laughing. And when his eyes opened, they were black.

You scrambled back as he stood, dusting himself off. "Well," Anti said hoarsely, voice still glitchy and pitch-distorted, but growing less so, growing more...human. "That was harder than I thought, honestly. I'll give 'im credit, I didn't think he'd even put up that much of a fight. Still. Not strong enough." "Let. Him. Go." He arched an eyebrow at you and grinned, too wide. "'Let him go'? What, are we playing tag?" He laughed, that high, disturbing giggle. "Oh, I can't just 'let him go', even if I wanted to. He's gone. It's just me in here!" He tapped his temple gleefully, watching you stand as if you were an interesting bug he was about to crush. You felt a sob welling up, but more angry than afraid, you shoved it down and balled your hands into fists. "He's not gone, you disgusting, lying thing." "Thing, huh?" He took a step toward you, and you had just enough courage, or maybe adrenaline, to hold your ground. "Did I get downgraded? Normally it's 'demon' or 'monster'." "You don't even deserve that. You're just...bad data." "'Bad data'!" He laughed again. God, you wished he'd stop that. It was horrifying. "You're gonna have to do better than that." He took another step, and this time you couldn't help but back away. "You idiot," he put his hands in his pockets, steadily moving closer, loving every second of you shrinking away. You gasped when you bumped into the wall behind you, and he got closer. The black of his eyes slowly melted away to reveal neon green irises. He leaned closer still, until he was inches from your face. "You really don't get it, do you? He was the only one with any chance of stopping me. And you? You're a dead fan walking." His smile got impossibly wider in appreciation of his twisted pun. "He can still stop you." Your voice was barely a whisper, and you jumped when he shouted, voice glitching out as his emotions spiked. "HE'S DEAD!"

You took another shaky breath, eyes wandering desperately. And they caught your watch. The stupid, stupid thought that came to your head was, "I'm missing the new video."

Video one was out for today. The video was out... You had the smallest spark of an idea. It was a shot in the dark, but...If you were going to go down, you were going to go down trying.

You met his eyes, hating that they were green, hating that they looked at you with so much glee, and malice. "Jack. Please. You've gotta fight him. I know you can hear me. I know you're there." Anti's arm was suddenly on your neck, and you were scrambling to pull it away. "It's lucky I don't need you conscious," he growled, shoving again, "I just need you breathing. And only long enough to get across." "Jack," you gasped, "think...think about them. Think about...us. We n...we need you." A weak smile. "You're...you're the boss, right?" Anti pushed harder, and it was getting harder and harder to focus. Had you not been trying so damn hard, you might've missed the hesitation. But it was there, and it was enough to give you hope. "What...?" It was barely a grunt, but you caught it. And you choked out a laugh as Anti convulsed, stumbling back. It was his turn to grab his head, green eyes wide in confusion and shock. "No. No, no, no, no, NO!" You'd collapsed to your knees, but you struggled to stand again, one hand going to the wall behind you as you concentrated. "Who's the idiot who assumed you could make Jack go silent? Anti, you don't get it. Sure, the fandom likes you. But there's something Jack's got that you'll never have." "And what's that?" he spat, the end of the sentence turning into a grunt of pain. His arm began glitching slightly, then his leg, then one eye. You smiled coldly. "You're the villain, Anti. In every story, in every video, in every post, you're the villain. But Jack?" Now he was retreating from you. "Jack's our hero." And you turned and slammed your hand against the wall, and it brightened. Suddenly, a picture popped up. It was Jack and a fan, both smiling in excitement. Anti stared at it in confusion, and started glitching out again. He yelled and shut his eyes. "Dammit!" A video popped up next. Jack, at his panel, jumping off the stage amid cheers to hug a fan. His hands went to his ears. "Stop! Stop it! STOP!" A thank you letter, from Tumblr, from a fan whose life Jack'd saved. And then another, and another. More pictures. Fanart. Jack, riding Trico, laughing. Jack, in a striped jumper, with a bright green heart above his head. Jack, yelling as he fell from a Colossus's collapsing body. Jack screaming at Billy as he fell into spikes. The wall was filling with posts from Jack's fans. Video clips, edits, pictures, soundbites, messages, tweets, comments. "Millions of people. Millions. Calling out to Jack to come back to them. They need their hero, and you're not gonna get in their way." "No, no, no, no, NO! STOP IT! HE'S MINE!" But his voice was glitching worse than before, and you thought you could hear another voice under it, laughing. Another voice, yelling Jack's catchphrases in time with the clips on the wall. Another voice, saying your name proudly, egging you on. "Jack, c'mon! You got this! Kick him out! You can do it!" "STOP IT!" His whole body was glitching out now, his face jumping between the angry distortions of his screaming, and Jack's grin, Jack calling out to you. And then suddenly, he collapsed. You yelled and grabbed your ears, eyes clenching shut automatically as a high-pitched scream rang out.

Silence. Absolute...silence. You didn't dare open your eyes. Please. Please. Please. And then...

A groan.

Your eyes shot open. "Jack?" He slowly pulled himself up, until he was resting on one elbow, breathing heavily. And then he pushed himself up into a crouch. He looked over at you.

You'd never been happier in your life to see blue eyes.

"JACK!" He laughed as you fell to the ground and pulled him into a bone-crushing hug, hugging you back with just as much intensity. "Hey." "Don't you 'hey' me, you asshole," you sobbed, but you were grinning. You pulled back a bit and scrubbed your eyes vigorously. "Damn, I'm glad to see you. Oh god." "I'm glad to be back." You could tell he was trying desperately to sound light about it, but there was more genuine relief than teasing in it. More quietly, he added, "Thank you. For...those." He motioned to the wall of still playing messages, smiling at them fondly. "Don't thank me. Thank them." "I do," he chuckled. "At the end of every video. And I mean it every time. God, you guys are amazing." "Yeah," you agreed, moving to sit next to Jack so you could both look at the wall. New things were scrolling through now. Gifs from new videos, theories about lore and more fanart from recent game series. "Yeah, we are. There's so many of us." It was only just hitting you how many. "14 million." He sounded so wistful and happy about it. You looked over to catch a goofy smile on his face, which you had to match. "14 million people. And they all like the stuff I do here. They like the games. They like..." "You." His smile got a little sad. "They like Sean." "No." He looked over at you, smile dropping a little. You put a hand on his back. "No, Jack. They love you. You say you're the part of Sean that exists online. Well, that's the only part we know. Yeah, we love Sean. But we know you. You're the one that makes us smile and laugh, that we go on adventures with in every video. We love Sean, the person. But we also love Jacksepticeye. The channel, the brand, the community. We love green and blue eyeballs, we love the flatcap and the green hair, we love yelling the intro and the outro at top volume, high-fiving 'til the headphones come off. We love Sean for being the man who started all of it, for caring for us so much and working so hard to do what he loves, for doing all the good he does for the world, but we also love the world he created online. So that means we love you."

Apparently, it was possible for a computer program to cry, because Jack was wiping his eyes with the collar of his shirt. He couldn't even muster a comeback, or a comment at all. You rubbed his back, smiling a bit. "As for me, anyway...I'd still love to meet Sean, of course. But...I'm so fucking glad I got to meet you. I think everyone wishes you'd reply when they say something stupid to their screen, and...as much as this's been terrifying, and dangerous, and as much as I do want to go home...I have loved every second I got to spend with you. It's like finally getting to talk to an old friend. I love you, Jack." He couldn't speak for a long moment. He did manage to pull you back into a hug, choking out a laugh. When he finally managed to speak, it was hoarsely. "Thank you. And I love you, too. I love you guys more than anything else in the world." He laughed a little again. "I don't even have a fuckin' thing to say after that speech. God, how embarrassing." "The loudest man in the universe doesn't have words for me. Someone alert the media." He squeezed your shoulders, and then the both of you moved to stand, finally.

You didn't say anything else as you walked along, finally coming to the ravine. When you got to Jack's door, he opened it and gestured, almost teasingly for you to go in first. You thanked him for his chivalry. It was good to be home.

"You didn't argue when I said man this time," you murmured when Jack was adjusting the camera. He huffed. "I was a little tired, having been possessed and all." He turned to look at you, hands on his hips. "You ready?" "As I'll ever be, I guess." "Then...it's goodbye." "Yeah." There was barely a second of hesitation before you pulled each other close, and there wouldn't have been a way to tell who was hugging tighter if anyone tried. After a moment, you pulled apart again, smiling. "I think..." He stepped back, taking the flashdrive from you and plugging it into his computer, booting up the code. "I think it's probably possible to be both a man and a program." "Well," you went to stand in front of the camera, "I can say, without a doubt, you are the best Persona I've ever met." "I'll take that." He paused, then said your name, making you look back over at him. It was still nice to hear him say it. "See ya in the next video." "Yeah. See you in the next one." One more long look, and then you turned back to the camera, closed your eyes, and focused on home. You reached out and touched the camera, opening your eyes at the last moment and glancing back over one last time to see Jack waving. You waved back... And everything was fading. And you were falling.

I think he did! i wonder if that’s related? Didn’t Mark say something about us getting two Warfstache videos?

Today’s Teaser (Sept 7, 2020)

FRIENDS. THINGS ARE HAPPENING. I’M BACK ON MY THEORIST SHIT AGAIN.

So I watched the clip several times, at varying speeds, and tried to transcribe what I heard:

[loud screech, metal on metal]

[crash, again seems to be metal on metal]

[hiss, as of steam being released]

[car engine revving]

Unknown Voice: Everything is happy…

[sound of a train going over tracks, faint train whistle]

Unknown Voice: [unclear] living his life to come through…

So that second voice line is one I couldn’t quite make out. The top two interpretations I got were “He’s living his life to come through” and “He’s giving his life to come too.”

I also snapped a picture of whatever flashed on screen in the darkness:

So you can’t see much here, but when I brighten it…

A door? When the image keeps moving, there are lights at regular intervals along the roof. Coupled with the sound, my guess is this is a train compartment, possibly in the style of Murder on the Orient Express.

Are we getting a new adventure? Possibly another murder mystery?

Such interesting developments, and with Halloween right around the corner…