Discord
01-05-2024, 01:15 AM
(This post was last modified: 01-05-2024, 01:17 AM by skinstealer.)
![[Image: 15-1.png]](http://homebrewdeviants.com/static/story/ff/15-1.png)
image description:
![[Image: lottiemigraine.png]](http://homebrewdeviants.com/static/story/ff/lottiemigraine.png)
[image description: a migraine type TCP with a purple and black body, white migraine-indicating markings, and orange swirly eyes]
KIERAN- 5/12/316
[HEAD_SPILL]: oh god, not you again.
[HEAD_SPILL]: look, i don’t do collabs with people i don’t know, or at the very least not for free.
[HEAD_SPILL]: and i don’t know you
[HEAD_SPILL]: and as far as i know, you aren’t paying me
[SIKE!]: ok but we could do good tho
[SIKE!]: ur art
[SIKE!]: my stickers
[SIKE!]: match made in a dream
[HEAD_SPILL]: i’ve seen your stickers, they’re very good, but i still don’t know you and money’s not on the table
[SIKE!]: thx i try
[SIKE!]: think about it
Kieran reclines in her seat, feeling the headache settle in already. She had already fended off one earlier this morning, but it’s just one of those days where another one’s coming on. This isn’t the first time where she was approached by someone for collaboration for free, and it wasn’t going to be the last by any means, but to say she’s sick of it was an understatement. She was already going to be busy with this whole prize deal with the forums on top of her usual commission workload, and that left little time for personal pieces...god, thinking about this isn’t helping her head.
Ten...nine...eight...seven...six...five…
Something drops through the mail slot with a soft sound, disrupting the migraine type TCP’s attempt at initiating meditation. Kieran sighs and gets up with a grumble, used to this kind of interruption- it’s always something. She could always just leave it for later, but at this point, she’d just be thinking about it anyway, her groove totally thrown off.
Junk mail, junk, junk, spam, annnnd
Sure enough, there’s a letter from Dr. Battz. If she could frown, her face would be contorted into a grimace, never pleased to see correspondence from her old practitioner.
That old coot can’t just leave me alone...I’m not seeing him, I’m not his patient anymore, what the hell does he even want…
Probably for me to come in and run more experiments as his little lab rat. Eugh. Fuck him.
Into the trash it goes along with the rest, another sigh escaping her as she realizes the state of her kitchen. It’s time for a cleanup, desperately, and as she goes around picking up trash, she knows it’s inevitable that she’s going to have to brave the outside world to haul it out to the cans down the hall.
Perfect. Just what I need with a fucking migraine.
I’m sure good ol’ Batty would love to watch me try this, carrying a bag out while teetering around. Wouldn’t be the first time…
She does her best to shake off the bitter thoughts as she hauls the bag over her shoulder, unlocking her door and starting off down the hall. Every step feels like a struggle, her head pounding as she strains to keep her body upright. The bag isn’t that heavy compared to her strength as a body type, large hands able to hold it with ease, but walking with literally anything in hand would feel like a misery ride at this point.
Someone passes by as she trudges on, and in her haze she recognizes them as one of her upstairs neighbors- a shorthair type, their name on the edges of her mind. Alien, or something. Alan? Wait, no. Fuck. Alias. Yeah. Pretty sure she’s heard the landlord yelling at them about rent a few times, something she’s dealt with herself more times than she’s willing to admit.
There’s something that nags at her as they almost brush against each other, exchanging mutual apologies before going on their separate ways.
The cans at the end of the hall are free, and there’s just enough space for her bag. Thank god, if they were full she would have fucking lost it. That would have been real icing on the cake today. The walk back is a little bit better than the way there, her head starting to clear up and become more lucid.
Still, there’s something pressing at her- not pain, but like she’s forgetting something. Like something’s missing. Like something’s...not quite clicking together.
Oh FUCK.
It’s gotta be a coincidence. Maybe they’re just a fan- but Felid Factor isn’t that big, and Critter hasn’t set up a storefront yet...it’s not like they’ve talked or anything outside the forums, but they’ve commented on each other’s work a few times, enough to call each other acquaintances. But still, the odds. The fucking odds. The planet’s so big, and the odds of two TCPs on a tiny TCP forum sharing a small ass apartment building, separated by a single floor, knowing each other...god, the odds are impossible.
But that shirt, it looked hand made, and that design was- no, it had to be a coincidence. There’s no way.
Kieran rushes to her computer, her head threatening to start pounding again from the sudden movement. She logs into the forums, screwing up her password a few times in her haste.
That’s it. That’s what I saw, it has to be. One of a kind.
Her hand is shaking a bit as she clicks on Critter’s recent threads, and finds one labelled “collab with [REMNANT_TREASURES]: critter fashion!”.
Fuck. It’s them. That’s the shirt.
Critter’s my fucking neighbor. Critter is Alias.
Do I tell them? Is that weird? Will they think I’m a stalker? Oh god, they’re going to worry that I’ll tell everyone. But...
It would be nice, to have someone in person. And Critter always did seem nice.
Kieran opens up MessiRoom, her hands really trembling now.
Ten...nine...eight...seven...six...five…
Something drops through the mail slot with a soft sound, disrupting the migraine type TCP’s attempt at initiating meditation. Kieran sighs and gets up with a grumble, used to this kind of interruption- it’s always something. She could always just leave it for later, but at this point, she’d just be thinking about it anyway, her groove totally thrown off.
Junk mail, junk, junk, spam, annnnd
Sure enough, there’s a letter from Dr. Battz. If she could frown, her face would be contorted into a grimace, never pleased to see correspondence from her old practitioner.
That old coot can’t just leave me alone...I’m not seeing him, I’m not his patient anymore, what the hell does he even want…
Probably for me to come in and run more experiments as his little lab rat. Eugh. Fuck him.
Into the trash it goes along with the rest, another sigh escaping her as she realizes the state of her kitchen. It’s time for a cleanup, desperately, and as she goes around picking up trash, she knows it’s inevitable that she’s going to have to brave the outside world to haul it out to the cans down the hall.
Perfect. Just what I need with a fucking migraine.
I’m sure good ol’ Batty would love to watch me try this, carrying a bag out while teetering around. Wouldn’t be the first time…
She does her best to shake off the bitter thoughts as she hauls the bag over her shoulder, unlocking her door and starting off down the hall. Every step feels like a struggle, her head pounding as she strains to keep her body upright. The bag isn’t that heavy compared to her strength as a body type, large hands able to hold it with ease, but walking with literally anything in hand would feel like a misery ride at this point.
Someone passes by as she trudges on, and in her haze she recognizes them as one of her upstairs neighbors- a shorthair type, their name on the edges of her mind. Alien, or something. Alan? Wait, no. Fuck. Alias. Yeah. Pretty sure she’s heard the landlord yelling at them about rent a few times, something she’s dealt with herself more times than she’s willing to admit.
There’s something that nags at her as they almost brush against each other, exchanging mutual apologies before going on their separate ways.
The cans at the end of the hall are free, and there’s just enough space for her bag. Thank god, if they were full she would have fucking lost it. That would have been real icing on the cake today. The walk back is a little bit better than the way there, her head starting to clear up and become more lucid.
Still, there’s something pressing at her- not pain, but like she’s forgetting something. Like something’s missing. Like something’s...not quite clicking together.
Oh FUCK.
It’s gotta be a coincidence. Maybe they’re just a fan- but Felid Factor isn’t that big, and Critter hasn’t set up a storefront yet...it’s not like they’ve talked or anything outside the forums, but they’ve commented on each other’s work a few times, enough to call each other acquaintances. But still, the odds. The fucking odds. The planet’s so big, and the odds of two TCPs on a tiny TCP forum sharing a small ass apartment building, separated by a single floor, knowing each other...god, the odds are impossible.
But that shirt, it looked hand made, and that design was- no, it had to be a coincidence. There’s no way.
Kieran rushes to her computer, her head threatening to start pounding again from the sudden movement. She logs into the forums, screwing up her password a few times in her haste.
That’s it. That’s what I saw, it has to be. One of a kind.
Her hand is shaking a bit as she clicks on Critter’s recent threads, and finds one labelled “collab with [REMNANT_TREASURES]: critter fashion!”.
Fuck. It’s them. That’s the shirt.
Critter’s my fucking neighbor. Critter is Alias.
Do I tell them? Is that weird? Will they think I’m a stalker? Oh god, they’re going to worry that I’ll tell everyone. But...
It would be nice, to have someone in person. And Critter always did seem nice.
Kieran opens up MessiRoom, her hands really trembling now.
[HEAD_SPILL] has requested a direct message conversation!
It feels like an agonizing eternity, but after a few minutes, it comes.
[CRITTER_CATCHER] accepts the request!
[CRITTER_CATCHER]: hey, can’t say i expected this
[CRITTER_CATCHER]: but uh, what’s up, i guess?
She has to correct a million typos while writing her first messages, catching so many mistakes just trying to get it right.
[b][HEAD_SPILL]: so this is...awkward.
[HEAD_SPILL]: and i don’t want to come off as unpleasant, or weird, or upsetting.
[CRITTER_CATCHER]: uh
[CRITTER_CATCHER]: is this a love confession or something
[HEAD_SPILL]: god no, god, no.
[HEAD_SPILL]: it’s weird, but god no. no.
[HEAD_SPILL]: i just, do you remember walking past a migraine type this afternoon?
[CRITTER_CATCHER]: UH
[HEAD_SPILL]: i’m sorry, i don’t know how else to open up to this, this is a weird realization for me too, i did not even mean to put this together
[CRITTER_CATCHER]: are you stalking me?
[HEAD_SPILL]: no! i’m the migraine type, i just live here!
[HEAD_SPILL]: i recognized your shirt and your typing from your profile and realized it was you, and...i don’t know, i thought…
[HEAD_SPILL]: i don’t have a lot of real life friends since moving here a few months ago
[HEAD_SPILL]: i swear, i’m not stalking you. i literally just noticed it this afternoon and it clicked together and it was complete chance
[CRITTER_CATCHER]: shit
[CRITTER_CATCHER]: well youre right
[CRITTER_CATCHER]: this is weird
[CRITTER_CATCHER]: but you never gave me like
[CRITTER_CATCHER]: creep vibes on the forums i guess
[CRITTER_CATCHER]: the odds of this are kind of fucked up
[HEAD_SPILL]: yeah, that’s, kind of how i feel about it
[CRITTER_CATCHER]: but i guess im kind of in the same boat
[CRITTER_CATCHER]: im lonely as shit
[HEAD_SPILL]: do you want to talk or something?
[HEAD_SPILL]: like...over coffee. or whatever, somewhere public
[HEAD_SPILL]: like how online-offline meetings are supposed to go
[CRITTER_CATCHER]: sigh
[CRITTER_CATCHER]: fuck it
[CRITTER_CATCHER]: meet you in ten
![[Image: TCP%20customs.png]](https://pile.randimg.net/3/13/190751/TCP%20customs.png)
