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on-stolen-sunbeams · 10 days

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There was a donut shop I used to pass on my walk to school senior year. I remember those pastel mornings well; the soft clouds of steam rising gently from outside vents, the way the world stood quiet, only interrupted by occasional puttering of an old pickup turning into the parking lot. It was in an old plaza, with flat, squat buildings and slightly garish, brightly colored signage. Every so often, if the breeze blew right, you could smell the faint aroma of coffee wafting your way. If you walked past early enough, sometimes you'd catch the glow of twinkle lights adorning the fence, still on from the night before and not yet washed out by sunlight. It was softer, somehow, a gentler, simpler place than the tall corporate-sleek tech companies, all silver and chrome, that came before. A kinder, more subdued plane of existence a few hundred feet down the road cloaked in goldenhour magic.

I once promised myself I'd stop by sometime, walk to school with a maple-glazed pastry in hand or curl up in the outdoor seating area and watch the sunrise. The shop opened early enough, after all. But I never did keep that promise. I regret it now.

It might just be the heartsick for yesteryear part of me, wedged somewhere beneath my ribcage like a particularly uncooperative splinter. But there's something pinprick painful about those unfulfilled promises. Not just about a warm donut, but penciled lists in childish handwriting with big dreams, so full of heart, leaving no room for much else. the complete and utter conviction in a happy ending. now I swirl bittersweet. Kids have the kind of faith that could take them to the stars should they only wish to glance a meteor. I know my younger self would lend me grace and sweet forgiveness that I can no longer afford, but I refuse to make a habit of accepting the priceless for free.

I'm not where I wanted to be. I didn't dream of dinner conversations under a veneer of disappointment and gray days, or pray to spend my days desperately clutching at mediocrity, of blending into wallpaper and counting down days torn between relief and dread.

It's easy to twist words into a new genre, a new form, cut sentences at the root and move them somewhere better. It's much harder to replant ampersand ambitions. I can't explain how things warped until they splintered. There's no clearcut reason for the way things are opposed to how they should've been. I don't want to look back and gloss over the regret, but averting my eyes is the least painful option, because it hurts, the twin desires to patch up youthful hopes and grind them to dust beneath my heel.

I don't know how this one ends. There's no moral, no central thesis I can cling to. I should've woven some kind of unifying theme, embedded details like a trail of breadcrumbs to an inevitable conclusion instead of throwing darts in the direction of a last page. The ending is still vague and uncertain. The story's not over yet.

Maybe I'll close with a zoomed in shot of a plane ticket, then a morning treat, some lesson in how it's never too late. The credits will roll into a lovely dawn sky, the focus will drag across a half-full coffee cup and evoke some sense of closure and peace. Onwards and upwards, it gets better. Maybe the shop's closed now, and the story ends with a solitary figure walking away, head heavy. the scene closes and you exit with a sour aftertaste and a wasted journey. I'm not cruel enough to spread regret like poisoned dandelion seeds in spring but sometimes it bleeds into the syllables. Maybe it fades off. I never visit, never wonder, slam the door shut and pretend today is day one and everything that came before never existed. Nostalgia sucks, but every open wound eventually scars over and flattens if you leave it be. Perhaps this one will too.

It's still too early to tell.

Some seven-year old part of me promises it will be alright. My seventeen year-old shade looks on with distrustful desperation.

(I hope I do right by her.)

#tis the season of cathartic self-reflection but also disappointment #this felt like the written equivalent of sweeping broken heirlooms out from under the bed after they've gathered dust #and hoping that the cracks are superficial in the more intact pieces.#something about how every end is a beginning and every beginning is an end #I'm a lot better now than I used to be I think.#but it's hard not to feel bitter looking back. nostalgia's quite a drug.#anyways to quote Palahniuk: I'll shut up now.#spilled ink #writing #writeblr #os2.txt

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sophieswundergarten · 9 months

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MBS Characters as Neat Words I Like

So. Listen. Some of these words are going to have fitting definitions. And some of them are just based on how they feel/look to me. Do with this what you will, and I hope you at least learn some fun new words :)

Mr. Benedict - Esoteric: requiring or exhibiting knowledge that is restricted to a small group / of special, rare, or unusual interest

It's very green and a bit orangey to me, like the scenes in S1 where he's sitting in the cabin, or a very nice rock. Maybe something with a fossil in it. But it's a good, slightly rough but ultimately quite pleasant texture. It's got the layers of an old book with age-stained pages and uneven edges because of how often it's been read. It's a really comforting word, and it's warm and inviting, like the feeling of walking into Mr. Benedict's house and seeing all the light come through the glass and the smell of books and the very clear evidence that it is lived in and full of love. If it had a physical form, I would keep this word on my shelf and look at it every day because it makes me smile.

Number Two - Librocubicularist: someone who reads in bed

Definitely a yellow word. It's got some nice light blues, like sunlight on a clear day streaming through a window, and a couple hints of green in there, but this word feels very warm and a bit like running your hand along the hard carved edge of a bookshelf. It's very square and cube-y, like a stack of little building blocks or one of those geometric M. C. Escher kind of designs. (Also I can see her just sitting on her bed and reading when people would want her to sleep when she was a kid)

Milligan - Hugger-mugger / Gallimaufry: Respectively, "secrecy" and "hodgepodge"

The first one is an automatic choice, because it basically sounds like a warped version of the words "hug" and "Milligan". It's a very warm, soft word that's a dusky orange-and-pink, like an old jacket or scarf that's being used to muffle a sound. The second word is chosen more for its meaning, as Milligan himself is a bit of a jumbley hodgepodge when we first meet him. It's coloured like moss covered stones along a riverbed, like the colours of that screenshot in Episode 1 where Milligan emerges from the secret tunnel in the yard. The tumbling of the word also mimics the curved brim of his hat.

Rhonda - Sophronise / Kismet: Respectively, "to imbue with moral principles or self-control" and "a hypothetical force or personified power that determines the course of the future events, fate, destiny"

"Sophronise" is because of how wise and quick-witted she is. She's a role model for the younger kids, and it was a really nice sunset- night-sky kind of ombre, a hint of deep magenta (Like that jacket she wore outside the cabin in S1) and the barest touch of yellow-orange, quickly moving into royal and midnight blue, and a whisper of silver that can almost be stars. "Kismet" is similarly multicoloured and beautiful, but more swirly like a wind-chime or suncatcher made of many different pieces hung just so, in such a way to catch the light and reveal glimpses of what's hidden deeper. It's a mostly wine-magenta and blue kind of colours; jewel tones.

Kate - Rawgabbit: somebody who speaks covertly about a subject of which they know nothing

This one's silly, because it just came to me because of its look. The definition doesn't really fit her at all. It's a helter-skelter word that is racing, fast moving and fidgety. It's a full kaleidoscope of colours, red and fierce and yellowy lemon gold and green like sun through new leaves and blue like daubs of fingerpaint all swirled and tumbling over each other, much like Kate's jacket.

Miss Perumal - Pluviophile: one who finds joy and peace of mind during rainy days

This is a very soft word, and it is a soft, watercolour kind of pastel. It's lavender and cherry blossom pink and a light sky blue, and it feels exactly like one of her nice sweaters or jackets. The lapel of a good, strong, felted jacket kind of feeling, like something you'd find at a thrift store and know that it was well loved, but taken care of so respectfully that you'll be able to wear it for years too. A pragmatic word. It is also very round and swooping, in much the same way her cadence of speech is.

Sticky - Uhtceare / Kenning: Respectively, "lying awake before dawn and worrying" and "a metaphorical compound word or phrase (such as swan-road for ocean) used especially in Old English and Old Norse poetry"

The first word is more because of the meaning, but it does have some hints of his shades of blues. The "uhtc" part is like glass as a lens, and the last part is like little round bits of blue sea glass, all tumbled and smoothed. It's a very pensive and reflective word, and it catches light in many different facets, something to be studied from many different angles in the solitary silence away from other people."Kenning" I chose because of its neat, rhythmic sound, like very even stitches through a piece of stormy blue cloth. It is a deceptively simple sounding word, but it has such a deep history, and I think that's something Sticky would really enjoy learning and knowing.

Constance - Fudgel: pretending to work when in reality one is not doing anything

Come on. This word is perfect for her. It has that hint of sweetness with "fudge", and yet it sounds stubborn and obstinate. It's a "fighting word", so to speak. Stout and short and compact, like a dense piece of wood that someone can heft and throw. And while I would not originally say that it has any of Constance's colours, there are parts of it that can be malleable, and there's definitely a hint of pink in the middle, a reflection and glimmer that comes from it being placed next to her name.

Reynie - Wergild: the value set in Anglo-Saxon and Germanic law upon human life in accordance with rank and paid as compensation to the kindred or lord of a slain person

This word came to me immediately. It isn't coloured so much like Reynie (Being mostly kind of deep purple and shaded forest green with the barest hint of gold, like brambles that have grown and woven themselves into an intricate shape), but for some reason it fits him. Maybe it's the complex depth that's hinted at in the heart of it. It's a wild word, but also very warm and trusting in that it expects the other person to honour their promises. Its etymology is basically "man" + "payment", and the idea of it being the value of a person when in relation to Reynie, who values every person as incredibly important is intriguing. Also, the first time I read it was in a fictional context as part of a spell or binding magic that connected people to one another, which is a much more vague and subjective reason, but it's a little more positive than "murder debt"

SQ - Welkin / Wanderlust: Respectively, "the vault of the sky / the upper atmosphere" and "strong longing for or impulse toward wandering"

Now. These words both start with "w" because "w" and "q" are coloured somewhat similarly to me, especially since there's an "s" involved. "Welkin" is a complex word, like running your hand over a particularly detailed and well-crafted mosaic. It's a very light baby blue fading into purple, a very mystical and soft word, like if you could tough fog. It speaks of walking softly down a grassy hill at dusk, looking up at the stars as they wake up and being able to trust that you won't trip. It's also got these kind of two curves, like the top of the "S" right next to the "Q". "Wanderlust" is dreamy and full of stardust. It's got that bluey-purple touch, but it sparks at the end, gold and shimmering and falling out of sight like a shooting star, just beyond the horizon, where you know you can follow it.

Curtain - Sanguine: marked by eager hopefulness, confidently optimistic / bloodred / consisting of or relating to blood

It's not quite the correct colour for Curtain, but the feel for it is right. It has a bit of dark blue, but it's also slimly and squelchy the "gui" bit makes it kind of greasy and hard to keep a hold of. It also fits him because of the different meanings; originally, "sanguine" meant "cheerful" because of the medieval concept of the four humours governing the human body, and it came from the Latin "sanguineus" which means bloody. The seemingly jarring differences between "happy" and "bloody" are a good representation of Curtain's duality.

Garrison - Gerrymandering: the practice of dividing or arranging a territorial unit into election districts in a way that gives one political party an unfair advantage in elections

This word also came to me really quickly. I kind of "see" spelling in my head, so even though the "g" in gerrymandering is pronounced like a "j" instead of how it is in "Garrison", it works. The word is coloured very much like her: light, dappled green and a little pink and some specks of orangey-red. It's also a strong word, a tiny bit mischievous but with hard lines that won't be crossed, no matter how much trickery and metaphorical dancing around delicate topics is involved to attain a goal.

#I'm sorry if these don't make any sense #I decided to let myself go all out with the descriptions #Or as much as I was comfortable with #Since it's just supposed to be silly #I nearly gave Curtain “pedantic” because it's kind of like the bitter and serious brother of “esoteric”#But the feeling wasn't quite right #Either way #I enjoyed getting to put all this down #It's been in my drafts for weeks because I was so nervous about rambling and sounding insane #But I'm putting it out there!#And now I shall shut up and stop stalling in the tags #the mysterious benedict society #mbs #mr. benedict #nicholas benedict #number two #milligan wetherall #rhonda kazembe #kate wetherall #miss perumal #sticky washington #constance contraire #reynie muldoon #sq pedalian #ld curtain #nathaniel benedict #dr. garrison #ALSO #SOME OF THESE ARE OLD ENGLISH #SO THEY AREN'T REALLY COMMONLY USED/DOCUMENTED

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cosmicrot · 3 months

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post about fatphobia: fat people are systematically treated like shit and this extends deep into many aspects of life including but not limited to the medical field, school, fashion, etc.

the comments: well MaYbE if You CaReD AboUt BeinG FuckAbLe AnD HaTeD YouRseLF, you'd STARVE and bOdY BUILD!! fAT pEOPlE aREN't oPPRESSED!! You'Re OppRessIng ME by Enjoying Being Fat aNd Healthy. [insert rant about obesity here that is 90% lies] [insert follow up rant about being oppressed for being skinny]

"wuh buh skinny shaming!" "skinny people are medically neglected too!" like... y'all are ignoring the fact that *a majority* of medical neglect and things of that nature towards skinny people is in majority because of fatphobia, [the rest due to other factors such as misogyny, racism, transphobia and queerphobia, etc.. making them not take things like ED and ailments causing you to lose weight/be underweight as serious] Like from first hand experience, a lot of people & doctors would literally rather folks be sick and malnourished then be fat. They'd literally rather people's bodies fall apart due to lack of nutrients or be so underweight they can't get out of bed, than have noticeable fat on their bodies.

but yeah no let's just overtake serious discussions about fatphobia and/or posts uplifting and celebrating fat people and make it about skinny people //sarcasm

#like fatphobia is so fucking insidious #like the hatred and so called “”“”“health concerns”“”“ treat folks as if even a microscopic amount of fat is the same as being obese #but also like!!! who's fucking business is it if someone is obese even!!! not fucking yours #like that's between them and maybe their doctors and loved ones if they want it to be #y'all love to pretend like you care but only when it's directly affecting you or makes you look good #just say you hate fat people and shut the fuck up forever actually #like if you're gonna be a fatphobic bigot just eat dirt and shut the fuck up FOREVER #if it seems like i'm overstepping anywhere talking about this as someone who's been skinny 90% of their life.. please let me know #i made my own post after seeing quite a few cause i didn't wanna speak over anyone or make the convo about skinny people #like there's enough weirdos who make unwarranted comments #idk maybe i'm just frustrated because now that i'm a healthy weight people are making a lot of weird comments about me “”getting fat“”#hashimotos is a bitch my weight has never been consistent #but the only time i've actually been fat i was a kid and people were fucking horrific to me and maybe i'm still bitter over that and #bitter over seeing my fat friends have to deal with so much fatphobia that i can't do much to help with

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frecklenog · 4 months

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"i'm very not alive" i love ava and i love erika ishii

#i love dream too but we're watching burrow's end so that's not exactly relevant. i'm just Still Bitter over a bad post i saw last night #shut up emrys

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shwoo · 1 year

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I said I wouldn't post this Clumby fic until I finished a different, unrelated Bugsnax fic, but... I got impatient, and the other story is much longer, and not getting finished for a while. So here it is!

Title: Clumby Comes Round Summary: One of Clumby's employees comes to her with a new lead, bringing back memories that she can't let slip, and can't seem to keep buried. Or, the opening scene of Bugsnax from Clumby's perspective. (Also on AO3)

All Clumby wanted to be doing right now was working on her memoirs. These days, the only substantial writing that her actual job required was the weekly editorial, and she'd finished that off by Monday lunchtime. The rest was boring logistical things, or revisions for newbies, most of whom had seemingly got all the way through journalism school without once hearing about commas.

Her memoirs had all kinds of minor classified things scattered through them, to see if the Snakolytes would notice. And to make extra work for them if they did. Usually, when something tedious came up, they just "hired" some desperate kid and got them to do it, while also paying the organisation for the privilege, but that wasn't going to work here. Either they let their new hire in on all their stupidest secrets, or they did all the work themselves.

Whatever happened, it might be mildly interesting. Clumby hoped.

Was it really only Thursday? She'd just got to a particularly satisfying bit about an ex-girlfriend, and she was itching to get into the details of the breakup. But she couldn't, and she couldn't get anything else done at the moment, because one of her reporters was coming in at four to give a pitch. She had plenty of terrible pitches to sort through already, but they'd insisted this one had to be in person. They'd been handed an amazing lead, they'd said.

It had better not be more long shot cryptid nonsense. Theobe had been one of the more promising new reporters when she'd hired them, and they did, at least, know what a comma was. They wrote fairly well, actually, and their interviews were quite thorough and professional. They'd once said that they'd spent a lot of time studying her technique, and, well… She wasn't immune to flattery.

The problem was that it had been years, and they were still only promising. All they ever wanted to write about was UFO sightings or the Loch Grùimp Monster or something equally pointless, and it wasn't even that they were particularly gullible, or prone to making things up. They were just fascinated by the unknown. So their stories tended to end up with wishy-washy "or is it?" conclusions. Eventually, she'd had to tell them that uncertainty didn't sell papers. But they'd… misunderstood.

Clumby had to hope that Theobe had got it after their last discussion. This time, she'd told them explicitly: They needed to find more grounded stories, with a broader appeal. They could write the occasional piece about haunted convention halls if they really wanted, but they needed to focus on topics that readers actually cared about. Things that didn't make them feel like they'd just wasted the last ten minutes of their life.

Speaking of wasting ten minutes of her life… the clock was about to tick over to four.

As soon as it did, there was a hammering on the door. Clumby sighed. "Come in."

Theobe hurried through the door, with a chunky file folder under their arm. They looked excited, and it was going to be hard to fire them when it turned out they hadn't learned a thing from the Grumpfoot debacle. Clumby didn't actually like firing people, but she also didn't like having to constantly babysit a grown Grumpus who didn't seem to understand their own job description. She had a paper to run, and as often as she wished it was some other dupe's responsibility, the newspaper was one of the few things she still had control over.

"Waiting in the hall again?" she said. They definitely weren't lacking in the passion department. That, she could understand.

Theobe dropped the folder on her desk, and said "This is from a a famous explorer. She sent it directly to me. And if it's real, it's the story of the century!"

"If it's real, huh?" said Clumby. That wasn't promising. With her luck, the "famous" explorer was probably Lizbert.

She glanced down at the folder, saw the word Bugsnax, and felt her stomach drop. Of course. Why would anything ever go right for her? Or any less than the worst way possible?

"I'll show you the film," Theobe continued, pulling a reel out of the folder. They sounded almost starstruck. They obviously hadn't been contacted by name very often. It was always an ego boost, but eventually you learned the difference between good decisions, and decisions that made you feel good. If Theobe was smart here, maybe they'd last long enough to learn that distinction for themself.

With a different newspaper, though. They obviously couldn't be allowed to write about Bugsnax in any case, but unless there was very, very clear evidence in that folder, they'd just used up their last chance with the usual pseudoscientific nonsense.

Or so she'd probably believe, if she didn't know better.

Theobe was setting up Clumby's projector, and Clumby realised that it was going to look weird if she didn't have anything to say. So she managed a "This better be good," as the projector stuttered to life.

They'd threaded the film leader to skip over the countdown, and the sight of the Snaktooth landscape hit Clumby like a truck. Every time, she thought it had been long enough, but even without colour, there it was. There were those squat, round bushes, and the tall purple flowers in the background. Lupins, Zobë had said. They were obviously somewhere in the southeast of the island, in the lowland forest.

Clumby noticed she was grimacing, and rearranged her face into something vaguely bored. Though she doubted Theobe would think to look at her before the movie was over. They already seemed entranced, even though they must have seen all this before.

Lizbert was there on the screen, talking confidently like she thought she was going to survive to see her next birthday. She'd barely started introducing herself when her long-term girlfriend, Eggabell, appeared in frame to interrupt her. Clumby rolled her eyes. So she had a girlfriend. So they'd probably be married by now if either of them believed in marriage. What did she want, a medal?

After a short exchange, Lizbert got back on topic, though she was still waffling. She said something about her "followers", and Clumby snorted. That kind of thing just led to… caves in the snow. Empty caves. With two sets of pawprints going in, and one coming out, and it was still snowing so the outgoing pawprints with the cane indents faded away before it could even begin to be possible to follow them.

Clumby tried to ground herself in reality. Unfortunately, the reality was that she was stuck watching a film shot on Snaktooth Island. Reality was not giving her any breaks at the moment.

They were definitely on the outskirts of the forest. Probably near the beach, just before all the columnar basalt. Clumby had actually learned that term from Gramble, come to think of it. He'd claimed that the rock on the beach might actually be made of something else, but he'd never figured out what, and now he was up on the mountain peak, probably forever.

Lizbert's expedition also had a Gramble, though they didn't have much in common outside of a name. He wasn't in this panning shot, though Clumby did see Snorpy for a second. Weird that he'd let himself appear on film at all, but he'd never been as observant as he thought he was.

Also visible were Filbo, Wambus, Cromdo, and Chandlo, and it occurred to Clumby that this was probably the last footage of them alive. She couldn't see any modified limbs on them so far, but it was only a matter of time, and then Clumby was going to have to figure out how to take the film from Theobe without looking suspicious.

Now Lizbert and Eggabell were talking up how great Bugsnax were. Yeah, they were great. Suspiciously great. Maybe they should have thought a bit more about why that might be. Clumby had heard speculation that Bugsnax were somehow capable of suppressing their targets' critical thinking skills, but she'd always had her doubts about that one. She was pretty sure most people were just that stupid.

Something darted across the screen, too quickly to make out, which Eggabell identified as a Bugsnak. Clumby identified it as more work for Clumby.

They were acting so cheerful. Like Zobë had, just before she'd stopped being Zobë. She'd said "Huh, you're right," and then Clumby had said something, and then Zobë had said "Are you ready? It's time to find out!"

Clumby tried to bring her attention back before her brain could repeat the entire death reel, but now Lizbert was just massaging Theobe's ego. No wonder they were so excited. While the Soylent Grump story Lizbert mentioned probably did deserve the praise, Lizbert had no idea how lucky Theobe had been to stumble across it in the first place.

As for The Shadow of Grumpfoot… Clearly, Snaktooth Island was a little behind on the breaking news front. Zobë's arm had come off in her hand. Clumby had thought the Bugsnax were just wearing off somehow, and then Zobë's nose had fallen off, and Clumby had tried to help and Zobë's arm… Her plasticky, lollipop arm… She needed to think of something else.

No, she needed to pay attention to the film.

Which had just blinked off. Clumby made sure she still looked bored, and tried to work out the least suspicious way to react. Disinterest, maybe frustration that they were still going this route instead of listening to her. That shouldn't be hard, because she was very frustrated.

Theobe was looking at her. "So?"

She'd waited too long. She should have thought about all this while the movie was playing, but she'd let herself get lost in memories instead. "Wow," she said, to give herself a little more time. Right. Frustration. Still chasing the same terrible stories. Piling more work on her. That was it. "That's your new lead? Another monster hunt?!"

Theobe folded their arms. "What's wrong with that?"

Really? "Do you have any idea the trouble you've caused me?" Clumby demanded, thumping her desk. "I had to recall half a billion papers, and give a public apology! All because your Grumpfoot turned out to be a lost football mascot!"

Did they know that? Because they didn't act like it. Maybe repeating it a few more times would get it through their skull.

Theobe looked a little taken aback. "Uh…"

She was coming across a bit strong, maybe. It was annoying to have to tell someone the same thing over and over and over again, and it wasn't clear if they honestly thought there was a way to do a story like this without making a mess of things, or they just never thought about anyone other than themself. But none of that was quite desk-slammingly annoying. That film had really rattled her.

"Look," said Theobe. "Grumpfoot was a, erm, a mistake, but I told you, it's not gonna happen again. You saw the film! Readers are gonna buy it no matter how I end it! I thought you wanted something showy."

"We've been over this," said Clumby. Convenient how they had perfect recall of all the things they'd said to her, but none of what she'd said to them. "It doesn't matter how eye-catching your articles are, if I'm stuck cleaning up your sloppy work! You are already out of second chances!"

From the stubborn look on Theobe's face, she still hadn't got through to them. She'd practically just told them they were already fired, and they didn't seem to have picked up on that, either. She knew they could be more observant than this. She'd read their work.

Frustrated, she thumped her desk again. "And now you're gonna follow Elizabert to some grumpforsaken island?!" And throw their life away on some stupid obsession with the unknown?

And was she just going to let them?

"Elizabert Megafig is a respected explorer--" began Theobe.

"Elizabert Megafig is either a con artist, or a lunatic!" Clumby interrupted. "Remember that whole mess with Grumplantis? This Bugsnax thing is just her latest delusion."

It was convenient that Lizbert was already disgraced, but you had to be a little desperate to go to Snaktooth Island in the first place. Even Bronica had been desperate for a different reason.

Theobe shrugged. "So she had some bad luck. She would have never gotten so much press if it weren't for her track record! It's not the first time she made the news. You remember that, right?"

Clumby rolled her eyes. "She got a little famous after stumbling across some forgotten civilisation in Grumpsylvania. She's been coasting off that success ever since."

Lizbert actually was a little more accomplished than her recent failures had suggested. But not much, and there was no way Clumby would have remembered that if she hadn't read up on her recently.

"She was onto something then, and she's onto something now," Theobe insisted. "What do you have against Snaktooth Island, anyway?"

There were so many ways to answer that, and so few things she could actually say. Frustrated, Clumby gave her desk another whack, and yelled "Do your research! Ships go missing there all the time." All the ways the island could kill a Grumpus flashed through her head, and she added "The place is like me before I get my coffee. Deadly."

She hadn't seen the cave-in that had killed Chonker, but Samly had, and she'd very been able to see their face. And it had been an avalanche that had finished off Gramble. She'd still been at the final camp on the lower slopes of the mountain, but Jamfoot had given her the details later. And she knew it was the truth, because he'd said it casually, and then hesitated and apologised.

Theobe opened up the Bugsnax folder and waved some photos at her. They were blurry and hard to make out, but Clumby thought she could see some Strabbies. Or just as likely, some normal strawberries with the perspective cheated. "The proof is right here! Why don't you believe in Bugsnax?" they said, a little desperately.

"Because I've got a working brain," said Clumby, with much less bitterness than she felt. Theobe's tone was encouraging, though. Maybe they were about to see sense.

Theobe started to say something else, changed their mind, and put the photos back. "I don't know what else to tell you. I'm going." They folded their arms again.

"This is absurd!" Clumby burst out. "Only a desperate loser would follow Lizbert."

She put her head in her hands and tried to think. She also tried not to remember Samly's scarf on top of that little pile of snow. There'd been a spoon sticking out of it.

Completely upright, somehow.

Nothing she said was getting through, she wasn't allowed to say the truly convincing parts, and all that was left to do was fire them and be done with it.

But, she realised, that would just make things worse. Because she was right. Theobe was doing something that only a desperate loser would do, because their refusal to see sense had made them into one, and they thought Bugsnax were their way out. If she fired them, they'd just go as a freelancer, and end up just as dead. Or even deader, because the Bugsnax were great at exploiting desperation. That pop singer with the one hit wonder… Wiggle Wigglebottom, that one… She'd probably been dead before Theobe had even checked their mail.

She could tell them the truth, but even if they believed her, it would get them both disappeared, at best. As usual, any choice Clumby thought she had was an illusion.

Actually, she did have one choice. Theobe could die knowing they'd lost their job, or… they could die thinking they still had one. If she couldn't stop them from running off to their death, she could at least do them that kindness.

Besides, it wasn't impossible that Theobe would bring this to a different news outlet, one with laxer editing standards and nobody the Snakolytes had pressured into the top job yet. And that was an unacceptable risk. From an ethical perspective, too. It would be really funny, but… no. Bad idea.

Clumby looked up, and tried to smile. "Well, it is a tantalising story if true. We'll just have to hear it from Lizbert herself."

Now she was going to have to prepare an addendum on the Lizbert report, and she'd thought she was done with it. At least she already knew all about Theobe's deal. Lizbert's expedition had a relatively high proportion of grumps of interest to the Snakolytes, and those hadn't been difficult to write on, but she'd had to cast a wide net for some of the others.

"Say you get an interview with her, and make it back alive," she continued, uncertainly. "You might just keep your job."

Though updating the report was really more of a formality. She was pretty sure that Jamfoot had, eventually, read the current version, but it was an uphill battle getting that grump to retain anything that didn't interest him personally.

She'd half-hoped that Theobe would notice her change of tune and see through it, but they just pumped their fist and grinned. They had definitely turned off their powers of observation for this meeting.

"Now get going!" said Clumby, trying not to let her nausea show. Now she had to say something insulting, so she sounded like herself. Just in case Theobe did regrow a brain cell or two. "And try not to fall off a cliff or something." That would have to do. Theobe had always had issues with falling off high places, even before they'd got themself killed on a living island that shook itself apart when it didn't get enough victims.

Theobe scooped up their folder and went to grab the film reel. "No promises!"

She was never going to see them again. She'd probably never even find out what had happened. Maybe she should doing do more to talk them out of it. Like even recruiting them, because despite all the downsides, and her promise to herself, they would at least be alive.

But why was she trying so hard to save them in the first place? She hadn't made an effort for Lizbert, or anyone who'd followed her, and all of them were equally as dead in the long run. The only difference was that she knew Theobe personally. And from that perspective, she'd done more than enough.

Yes, she could make herself believe that, if she didn't poke at her logic too hard.

"See you in a few months!" said Theobe, as they walked out the door.

Clumby put her head back in her hands, and muttered "What's another dead idiot?"

"What?" called Theobe, from the hallway.

Clumby raised her voice. "I said, what's another dead idiot!"

"Ha!" Theobe yelled back.

#Bugsnax #Clumby Clumbernut #Bugsnax journalist #fanfiction #Shwoo's writing #Characters who are bitter and depressed but still care to some extent my beloved #Clumby outwardly: (doing her mean editor thing)#Clumby inwardly: (endless screaming)#I legitimately increased the length of this story by 150% in editing #It's usually not that dramatic but clearly I can't shut up #I do know about commas but I'm not sure about full stops

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