The Fourth Wall [ClockworkCadence ║ Ryees]

[Ryees]

If you have a dream, don't wait. Act.
The closer you get to the light, the greater your shadow becomes.
​

"You stole those quotes from Kingdom Hearts." I adapted those quotes. "From Kingdom Hearts." How do you even know what Kingdom Hearts is? You're a literary construct. "Forged out of your brain, Mr. Thousand-Hours-Per-Game. Don't you bloody backspace me!" Guard. "What are you—" Guard! Guardguardguard!

Vaughn snapped out of his Aside and returned his attention to the waterways below the city, where a guard's feet had appeared at the stairs that led under the bridge. He bit off a curse and slipped a card face-down onto Tower's playfield. The Alter charged with energy, the orbs on its front flickering to life in a dim blue glow. The river ran under the bridge to his left, and he flicked his wrist to fling the blade open. Dipping the tip of that blade in the water saw it draw fluid up into its body, and the light on its housing took on a blue glow. Vaughn dashed forward just as the guard's head would have cleared the bridge, and revealed the Vaughn and the three men behind him.

Vaughn hit the bottom of the step and punched his left arm forward. Tower's blade snapped back perpendicular a jet of water erupted from its tip, propelling Vaughn forward and up. A vicious punch turned into a spinning leap that flashed Tower's blade across and through the man's neck, cleanly beheading him. Vaughn allowed his spin to carry him through and plant his heel on the man's back, giving him a shove and tumbling his body into the river. He landed on his back on stairs in a heap, wincing at the stone scraping up his back, but pleased that his cover had not been blown.

"Was that necessary?" one of his extras called as the trio shuffled up behind him.

"We had to establish a tone, is all," was his only response before taking off, leaving puzzled looks on the extras' faces as they tailed behind him.

The river ran the length of the castle's eastern wall, built to follow the curve of the river in an organic, pleasing way. Massive water wheels set into the outer wall dipped into the river and delivered electrical power into the castle, and it was just those water wheels that the insurgents angled towards. Just as promised, they were not spinning tonight: Their mole had done her job. The wheels were three men high, but the through the power of anime, they were easily able to hop from spoke to spoke, flipping themselves up onto the high wall and gaining entry to the castle grounds.

The walls along the riverbank saw less guard traffic for their less-than-assailable nature, and using this to their advantage, Vaughn and his team stole over the wall. A rope was dropped into the courtyard below, one man sliding down its length while three above held it, followed shortly by the second man. Vaughn went third, leaving only the largest of his extras atop the wall, who coiled the rope back around his shoulders and sat down at the edge of the wall. He turned to hang from his fingertips, then kicked backwards, the three men below forming a net to catch him. The rope came with them, and they were in, with no evidence to be seen.

Entry to the castle was to be through a servant's corridor that would, at this time of night, be noticeably lower traffic. As they moved through the castle courtyard, Vaughn removed the deck from Tower's compartment, finding the Fool and cheating it to the top of the deck. The four men came upon their door and tested the handle to find it unlocked, just as promised. Vaughn shoved the door open and for now, entered alone.

A serving girl and a chef spun in shock as the door was flung open, an unknown figure appearing from outside. Vaughn quickly slapped the Fool into Tower's first slot, in the same motion as he swung his arm across his body to the left. The card activated and that arc flung a misty, sparkling haze through the room like an expanding cloud of smoke. The servants eyes misted over, and they began to swing their heads about, having forgotten the last hours of their life. It was but a moment before the extras had seized them, quickly choking the consciousness out of the unwitting servants before dragging their limp bodies to be tossed in the dark corner. Bodies In the Dark Were Invisible, after all.

 

[ClockworkCadence]

Hey, we’re on.

“Oh, already?”

Destirome self-consciously adjusted her lavish lavender silk nightgown as if anyone could see it at the moment, high up in a sturdy stone tower of one of the central spires of a beautiful castle, where any princess should be. The stereotypical European setting meant the fortress was nestled in a clearing cradled by a river just outside of a temperate deciduous forest, enjoying all four distinctive seasons over the course of the year with milder summers, unlike some of the humid cesspools I’ve lived in. Her home was called Caerllion, a bustling area full of farmers along the outskirts, merchants and tradesmen near the middle, nobles at the center, and as its Welsh namesake suggests, a tiring amount of white people everywhere.

Not that we care about all those people. No, instead we center in on the epitome of Eurocentric beauty standards, our pale-skinned protagonist with long, blonde hair, a small yet curvy frame, and the prettiest blue eyes saturated with enough color to be called—dare I say it—sapphire orbs. Yes, dear readers, our Pretty Princess Powerhouse Destirome De’Crez is the wannabe Mary Sue of our dreams, at least until the plot claws her Royal Brat™ mentality to shreds to metamorphose her into a slightly less insufferable human being.

“Excuse me?”

Hush, I’m not done. Fortunately, or I suppose unfortunately for some, this is not a story where she will end up getting porked within the first five posts, a bona fide enemies-to-lovers slow burn. It is my duty as narrator to slap disclaimers where disclaimers are due—if you’re looking for something to rustle your jimmies, you’re gonna have to look elsewhere, sweet horny readers.

“What are you talking about? What do you mean readers?”

Readers of this story, if there are any besides us narrators. Listen, you do not wanna know what sort of forum your story is on.

“What do you mean story?”

Bitch do you not know what books are?

Aside from her obvious lack of understanding of the situation she found herself in, Destirome was actually rather intelligent, given all the private tutors money can buy and taught right alongside her six sisters and three brothers, because royalty be fucking like rabbits for them heirs since half of them will probably die from the bubonic plague, or dysentery like literally everyone in the Oregon Trail game. Up until this point, she’d had quite the extravagant, low-stress, silver spoon sort of life, and you know what that means—without trauma in her backstory, it’s required that she experiences trauma through the course of the story. I don’t make the rules.

“I’m sorry? What kind of god are you, willingly torturing your creations?”

First, literally every god does that. Second, you actually think I’m a god? That’s hilarious. Darling, I am a psychologist in my late twenties. Godhood has passed me by. I told you before, I’m a narrator. Like for those books you don’t read.

I’ve sort of shot myself in the foot because she actually has quite a sizable bookshelf in her penthouse room, with one such novel sitting on a lovely bistro table—it's made of mahogany. Mahogany—to the side of the room, complemented by two identical ornate chairs. She at least has good enough taste to know that the only thing better than pussy is a really good book. Even more ostentatious than her finely crafted sitting area was her canopy bed, draped with swaths of sky blue fabric and built with four sturdy posts, for—ahem—reasons, wink wink. A crystal chandelier warmed the space with a dazzling glow, dimming in comparison the bright moonlight filtering in through the wide arched windows.

A polite knock at the door startled Destirome out of glaring up at the ceiling at her not-god, and within moments, a terribly bland NPC servant bowed courteously and entered, placing a cut lead crystal decanter with a matching wine glass gently atop the aforementioned table and scurrying off.

Our lady hadn’t, in fact, ordered bedtime wine, but she wasn’t about to say no to it. She had enough sense to accept free wine, especially some twenty year old bottle from her parents’ collection that cost more than my rent. Unlike the rest of us degenerates that drink five dollar wine straight from the bottle, she carefully picked up the decanter and gave it a swirl because aroma or some shit, before pouring a modest amount of the dark liquid into the glass.

“So,” she began as she sat down and rubbed her temple, undoubtedly feeling a headache already coming on after dealing with me for not even an entire post, “who are you, anyway? Do you have a name?"

Well, yes, but witness protection and all that, plus it’s fun being referred to by a title instead. All mysterious and shit. But seriously, my actual name is super uncommon. Don’t need weird people finding me. How about this—call me Cadence.

She shifted in her seat, sitting prim and proper with her spine straight, unlike my hunched over scoliosis goblin ass. "Okay, Cadence then. What does it mean to be a narrator?”

Well, this. Writing who you are, what you do and feel, what happens to you, like any story you read. You’re one of the fabulous protagonists—the second is written by another narrator.

“There are other narrators? What are they like?”

There are many flavors—riddled with anxiety, caffeine addicted, insufferably pretentious, the most filthy degenerate you’ve ever seen, ones who think a paragraph is an acceptable post length, crippled by writer’s block, beautiful queers, and more.

“...What flavor are you?”

Blue raspberry.

Destirome sat quietly, waiting for more. There was not more.

"...Can I get a different narrator?"

That’s not how this works, sweetie. I get to write the pretentious princess, Ryees gets to write the badass rogue.

“...So what sort of story is this?” She continued awkwardly, picking up her wine glass and eyeing the decanter, wondering how much more she might need for this conversation.

Honestly? No clue. I’m not omnipotent. Your story is being written as we speak. I have no idea what happens next, so good luck, darling.

“What? Surely you have some idea.”

Nah. Just sit back and choke on your wine.

“Do wha—” Destirome started before sputtering into a series of deep coughs, the alcohol burn not as fun when it’s in your nostrils. She set the glass down haphazardly as she reached for a glass of water conveniently already there from earlier in the night because hydrate or die-drate, trying to right her malfunctioning bodily functions as she pulled out her handkerchief to hack into in a distinctly unladylike manner.

…You good bro?

After a couple lighter attempts to clear her throat, she answered: “Does it look like it? Did you seriously just try to kill me just now? I’ll have you know my guards—”

—are currently the ones being killed right now, actually. The tone is way different over there than it is in here, lucky you. Besides, I’m saving you, actually. How are you feeling right now?

“How am I feeling?! I’m feeling—” The angry rant suddenly lost steam, blue eyes blinking as they faded into an unfocused cloud. “—what? What’s happening?”

Congrats, you’re a lightweight. Nah, actually you were drugged.

“What?”

You’re welcome, I kept you from drinking an amount that would have knocked you completely unconscious. Now look sharp, he should be coming soon.

“He?”

Enough introduction. The inciting incident awaits.

 

[Ryees]

Alright, she's absolutely hysterical, this is going to be a good time.

"You never did really tell me what's going on up there." Vaughn's gesture would have been rude had he done it to someone's face, thankfully he was only waving at my address bar, relative to his position. "You said you know this other narrator? Then why would you not just have her make the princess fall asleep and get carried off?"

Because that would not make for a long enough thread, and I want to drag out your travails long enough for you to fucking get some, my guy. You don't even know how far an semi-omnipotent wingman is going to carry you.

"I'll take your word for it—"

I know you will. Shut up. Look sharp. Guard.

Vaughn's tongue clicked as he heard the footsteps, echoing down the hallway just loud enough to be heard (you're welcome), giving him enough time to slip behind the door to the kitchen. The guard walked right past him (you're welcome, again), looking puzzled as to why the room was empty. The inner edge of Vaughn's blade swung up and around his neck, and Vaughn hunkered his head into the man's back and leaned back into the wall. It only took a few keystrokes that I had to backspace an irritating number of times before the guard fell unconscious.

The extras filtered out of the room ahead of him as he rolled the guard into the space behind the door, propping him against the wall. Vaughn slipped out behind them, following the one who jerked his head in the correct direction. As the team ghosted up the hallways, Vaughn took the time to riffle through Tower's deck and find the Hanged Man, slipping it into the notch on the playfield and letting it activate as they approached a lone door set into an auspicious wall.

"How can a wall be auspicious?"

Because it has a plot device behind it. Now pay attention.

The figure standing outside the door seemed to expect them, entirely nondescript and nonspecific in the way she greeted them and informed Vaughn that she had delivered the wine as instructed. Vaughn, for his part, carefully whispered to her a coded word that would give her the letters to decode a second, longer letter, she had received before we started writing. He would undoubtedly never notice her again, despite her eventually showing up in camp.

Vaughn cracked the door open—and froze. I thought you said she would be unconscious!

To you, in like, draft one of this story. You gotta get in the Discord, bud.

Vaughn scowled at me somewhat deservedly, but entered the room quickly, followed by his extras. "I don't know how this is going to go anymore, your Grace,so I'm sorry if you were not properly informed what's about to happen here." His tone was awkward and unrehearsed, but he wasted no time waving his armblade. The Hanged Man activated, and from each of the five eyelets on Tower's front curve, a length of rope shot out. Four of them wrapped their way around the princess' wrists and ankles, and the last circled her torso. The ropes disconnected from Tower and, as though they were elastic, sprung away, neatly finding their other end and tying a secure knot that was absolutely used in several bondage rigs.

"Now what?" Yeah, now what. Can't really carry her out of here if she's conscious and kicking, hm?

Vaughn sighed, fingers at his temples as he realized he could not simply carry her out if she was still conscious and kicking. "Must she kick? Can you not just have her other—you, thing—tell her to cooperate?"

Hah. I mean I can ask her. But, it's way more interesting if you have to get all handsy with her to get here out of here. Besides, she's a little rope bundle right now, and you have three dudes of indeterminate physical ability. Surely you can haul her out!

"She'll scream."

Ohhh. Hm. You're right. Honestly she might already be, let's just, close this door, seal that up for a moment.

One of the extras dashed over to the door, swinging it shut quickly before any untoward sound could slip out into the hallway.

Okay. Carry on!

 

[ClockworkCadence]

No “sorry but your princess is in another castle” here. We’re going straight to the action.

In the drifting haze of time between posts as I try my damnedest to get my life together, the door swung open, startlingly lacking the polite etiquette of the first girl as a decidedly not-girl red-headed man barged in, followed by a faceless posse.

Hi welcome to Chili’s—

Destirome darted to her feet, stumbling off-kilter as her bedchambers had never looked more distorted and foreign to her. Apparently my girl’s never gotten absolutely shitfaced before. ‘What’s happening? Who are they? What does he mean, were you actually supposed to tell me what was going to happen?’ Destirome thought frantically, wide-eyed as she faced the troupe with a high-tilt chin and a low-tilt hand fumbling for the book on the table behind her.

You sure ask a lot of questions for a sheltered bimbo. Look. Look with your special eyes. That’s your love interest, right there, come to sweep you off your feet.

‘He has a weapon!’

So he’s kinky. Listen, a little spice never hurt anyone. Just have a safe word.

“Help! Guards!” She screeched, the glass of wine bursting into shards on the floor as she pulled the book with far more strength than it should have taken to lift, intent on chucking it at one of the two mirrored blurry shapes in front of her before the ropes ensnared her in a sexy but not too sexy way. She tumbled inelegantly to the ground, nightgown rumpled up her thighs because we gotta show a little leg.

Sorry to break it to you babygirl, your guards are Skyrim guards. They could be riddled with fifteen arrows in their chest and proclaim “must have been the wind”.

The princess attempted to right herself, unsure which way was up. She was struggling about as much as me that one time I passed out in a single occupancy Skyline Chili bathroom at 2 in the morning. ‘You’re supposed to help me!’

No, I’m supposed to write a compelling story. And guess what the easiest avenue for that is? Drama and trauma!

After a moment of lolling about on the floor, she finally seemed to recognize gravity, hauling herself upright to sit before her frantic attempt at backpedaling resulted in her crashing back to the ground, earning her a fine lump on the back of her pretty head. A feral animal pinned, she tugged uselessly at the bindings. ‘I want a different story. Please?’

Nope. You should just be glad you weren’t written in my high school edgelord phase like your predecessor.

‘But he’s got an Alter! What am I supposed to do?’

Well, right now he’s literally only shot ropes at you like a normie. Were you seriously never like, trained or something on how to escape binds or some shit like that? When you’re a princess? That’s just poor foresight on your parents’ part.

‘Well, why didn’t you write me to have learned any of that?’

You’re a character. You’re supposed to be flawed.

‘But I’m a protagonist!’

Listen, we’re all the protagonists of our own stories or whatever, and I still take half an hour to write a work email. Being a protagonist doesn’t automatically make you awesome.

‘So you’re just going to let me get taken?’

I mean…yeah. Trust me, you'll love it. But not without a good flashy fight first. You have the power of not-god and anime on your side. Use your mirror.

Even the mention of it seemed to sharpen the world around her, just a little. ‘But…if people find out…’

Girl, that’s the whole point of a story, of you being a person interesting enough to be dubbed a protagonist. You do things that scare you. You fuck around and find out. You fail and succeed and throw yourself to fate regardless of the outcome because you have a narrator, and I have your back, despite my moral compass being a roulette wheel. Use the mirror.

Her lips pressed into a resigned line. ‘Even if I did, what good could I do in this sort of state?’

Listen, if I could run drunk as hell in a parking lot and not trip and eat an unhealthy portion size of pavement, you can summon badass powers while tripping absolute balls to at least cut a damn rope.

Somehow emboldened by the shared memory, Destirome took a deep breath, the air taking on a distorted shimmer not just in her own perception. The book hanging limply in her numb hands disintegrated into a dense plume of opalescent smoke. Tiny pockets of the oil spill fog condensed all around her, forming technicolor crystals that drifted and sparkled with a radiant glow that any rave would kill to have at their venue. Piece by piece, they raced towards her open palms bound behind her back, leaving streaks like shooting stars in their wake. The orb of light in her palm grew ever larger and brighter until it burst, scattering diamond dust to drift lazily in the air around her. In its place, a small pink and gold filigree compact mirror rested.

Honestly, it’s such a small little thing, it’s hard to make it have an impressive and flamboyant magical girl transformation, but we did our best. However, like any time such a transformation happens, time thankfully pauses and lets a bitch have some space because time respects camp and fashion.

As time resumed though, Destirome wasted no time in swiveling around—or at least, roly-polying—to turn her back to her opponent, flicking open the mirror and saying a silent prayer as she yelled, “Freeze Frame!”

‘Remind me, why did I have to yell that?’

Because camp.

The magical phrase did its job, despite a certain someone being a nonbeliever in the potency of dramatically declaring ability names—a still frame of Vaughn occupied the mirror, as if it were a picture in a large locket. Because she totally has a special mental connection to her power, she knew it had taken effect without craning her neck awkwardly to look down at the picture next to her ass. Frankly, that's probably the closest he'll get to eating ass for a while. With the tightness in her chest loosening just a bit, she flicked the mirror shut with a burst of magic glitter. “Copycat.”

The glitter sucked back towards the mirror, glowing steadily brighter as its form seemed to morph in her hand, extending and shifting until it dimmed to reveal a pink and gold version of Tower adorning her wrist. With a quick bit of repositioning, she ran the blade along a section of the rope, severing the threads. As she worked to free herself from the other ropes, she clumsily drew the top card of the deck, giving it a quick study because of course she also magically gained knowledge of how to use the power because it wouldn’t be full camp if she were clueless, smirking before slapping it onto the playing field with a burst of holographic confetti.

The confetti shot out in front of her towards her bed, impossibly multiplying until it became a giant mound before falling away like leaves to reveal a giant gold filigree scale that scraped the bottom of the chandelier and cracked her bed frame with its weight. At the same time, the blade of her Tower was a grower not a shower and lengthened to unfortunately not Buster Sword length, but easily sliced through the rest of her ropes as the pink gemstone nodes flashed, rocketing her at terminal velocity towards her assailant as she anime yelled, “It’s judgment day for you, villain!”

So uh, whoops. Didn’t intend to unleash the ultimate attack on this poor bastard, but this is literally the most hilarious scenario that could have come out of her using Tower for the first time. His blood is on your hands, Ryees. You did this to him.

 

[Ryees]

Rough go, my guy. I won't use Google's random number generator for your deck anymore.

“Freeze Frame!”​

Neat trick, that. Vaughn did not seem to think so, though, as his body disobeyed him and he locked in place like a spell from our other thread had been cast on him. His eyes could barely move, but he watched helplessly as this little shit stole his shit and awkwardly twisted about, cutting the Hanging ropes and freeing herself. The one saving grace was that she was very attractive and he got to watch her squirm around and show off as she did.

He could feel his eyes twitch as the girl reached for his deck, and even though I know what's coming because I read the last post, he nearly blacked out when Judgment revealed itself in the background. His colors inverted as the power was invoked, losing his capital letter weight in one flip of the deck.

vaughn grunted and fought against the now-fading immobility charm, slowly regaining control of his limbs. His extras reacted as quickly as I could type, the normal-sized men launching themselves forward body-armor first. The first was cut cleanly in half as De'Tower's wave dash passed through him. The second fared only marginally better, dragging one of the chairs into the way such that it took the slash instead, and he was thrown back against the wall, narrowly avoiding a concussive death. It would be the largest of the extras who I decided would actually have an impact as he charged forward, lifting the table up onto his shoulder and checking it into the flying princess. He was not successful in stopping the attack, but he lived! And the table kind of bounced the princess up a little bit, just a few inches so that the blade did not in fact decapitate the plot.

Instead, she crashed into him tits chest-first, a flying cross-body from the top rope that sent them both tumbling over the floor. Because I'm the active writer, Vaughn—Oh hey you're back!—righted himself first, hauling himself to his feet mid-slide and spinning to face the princess who had tumbled into the wall. Her shoulders against the wall and her body stretched forward, Vaughn fell forward, his left hand holding him off the floor while his right kabe-don'd he fuck out of the wall above her head, leaving his eyes only a hand's width from hers. "I don't have time for you to struggle," he growled, a little bit sexy-like in the way of a very shaken, frustrated rebel.

He stayed bent over her, but crossed his hand and expertly riffled through his deck, stopping at the Emperor and slapping it into the playfield. In a scene very inspired by Code Geass, his eyes flashed with a red sigil (see: #reference-images) that commanded respect and obedience. "Your people are dying out in the world, and you're coming with me to fix it!" The sigil flashed an afterimage of itself that reflected in her eyes, suggesting that she either needed to follow him out, or be carried out, because really how else are we getting them out of this castle? "Now get up, or we find out how long you take to pass out!"

Have you considered at all if she likes being choked? Vaughn's eyes shot up at me really kind of rudely—and don't take your eyes of the prize idiot! I'm keeping an eye on her but DAMN you fucked up there.

Vaughn snapped his attention back to her, pushing himself off the wall and slowly standing up. His mouth set in a grim line, and the bond connecting their eyes shared glimpses of memories. Of families being torn away by warrant officers, of men and women being herded from their homes, of poor souls at the end of a branding iron as they were forever marked a Summoner with a capital S. Obviously she wasn't going to just give up her life in the moment, but at least she should realize that if the guards really are on their way (and I haven't written any yet) that they would be no match for my keyboard telling them what to do.