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How I imagine things will go next season
But seriously though, AMAZING WORK
I can’t wait to see where things go next and what kind of pain we’ll be getting this season
I Took the One Less Traveled By - a Malevolent Fic
FINAL FIC OF SURROGATE: THE DIRECTOR'S CUT, SEASON ONE
Faroe is given a choice.
A choice six years in the making.
She could never have predicted the result.
AO3
----------
Her birthday.
He’d forgotten the date, gotten lost in their travels and searching.
Six years.
His daughter. His Faroe. If they hadn't pleased this monster , she would die. “No,” Hastur whispered. “No! Please! ”
The audience cheered. “Aaaand coming to you live, from Carcosa!” Kayne cried, holding up the cake in one hand. In his other, he had a weird mic, long and thin, almost like a wand. “The season finale to the greatest show of this generation!” And he tilted the mic away. The audience cheering stopped with the sound of a record scratch. “Been thinking of calling it Lester Yellow, you know, almost like it’s some kind of seasonal Home Depot color, what do you think?”
“Leave her alone,” Hastur breathed, so terrified he could not move. "I beg you. I'll do anything!"
"What?" whispered Faroe in a daze.
"No!" shouted Arthur. "Don't touch her!"
“No?” said Kayne. “Naw, you’re right, that name doesn’t really make sense. Oh, well.” Record-scratch, audience cheering. “And here we are! The overall ratings are in, kids! How do you think you did? Well, I can tell you: you did fantastic. The drama! The tears!” His voice dropped sixteen octaves. “The character arcs like blades, hooking deep in the gut! Oh, and of course, filicide. Fucking delicious."
Hastur made a noise as if he'd been gutted as Kayne spoke.
How dare you, John groaned.
“And I brought cake for the occasion!” Kayne said, holding it up again, and eyed them. “But you know what? No, no, cut. Cut! Edit. This little clusterfuck will not work.” And he snapped his fingers.
They were abruptly torn away from each other.
Everyone shouted. Nibbles bleated. Hastur and Arthur found themselves on opposite sides of the throne room, just within the blazing light—and behind some kind of barrier. Whatever it was, neither could get past it; whatever it was, neither could be heard.
They banged, shouted, kicked. Hastur, then John, tried spells.
To no avail.
Faroe scrambled backward until she slammed into the throne, gasping. Nibbles had been placed behind her, on the seat, unbound, but similarly cordoned off.
Kayne loomed , leaning over her, blocking the spotlight so he was silhouetted except for the freakish whiteness of his teeth.
Faroe stared up at him, gasping loudly, fear upon fear after horror upon horror making her shake, making her feel so weak. She’d grown up around bigger beings, long been used to such large things as her father—but this human-sized man, right now, felt bigger than them all. “Kayne!” she cried.
“That’s my name, feel free to wear it out and I’ll make up another one!” he said, and laughed.
It was horrible, that laugh. Worse than in her head. This close, shocking, knife-like, it pierced, and she screamed, covering her ears with both hands.
He crouched suddenly, holding the mic out to her so her gasps echoed back at her from around the room. “Hey, now, don’t be sad! You won! What do you have to say?”
Faroe cringed. “Go away!”
“Mmm, nope, nope, I mean, my script has a lot of space for improv, but that’s definitely not on the docket.”
“What do you want?” she cried.
He laughed. “What does anybody want?” he proclaimed. “Affordable coffee! Universal healthcare! Vengeance! A damn good show!” He tilted his mic away like a cue, and the audience tittered.
Faroe's tears were hot on her cheeks. “I thought you were my friend!”
All the sound stopped. Not even a record-screech this time, just sudden, strange silence. Hastur and Arthur were frozen, unmoving. Over her head, so was Nibbles, still in place like a photograph.
Kayne’s look was pitying, and cold, humiliating, as if she'd just been stupid . “Did. I act. Like a friend?”
She stared.
He leaned in, crawling forward, crouching over her on all fours like some predatory beast, and his spine did not curve right. “Did. I act. Like a friend?”
“No,” she whispered.
“Trust what people do. Not what they say.” He patted her cheek and stood again, human again, and all the sound resumed. “And now, it’s time for the final game of the season!” The audience cheered wildly. He looked at her. “It’s your cue,” he mouthed.
Cue? Cue for what? She had no idea what was going on, what these crowd sounds were, what the hell he was holding in his hand. Just how many times did she have to go into a horrible situation like this and not know what was going on?
She wiped her face, furious. This wasn’t funny.
“Oh, I disagree,” said Kayne.
In their invisible barriers, her fathers (fathers!) both railed, physically battering themselves, trying to get to her.
She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to draw the sword from the stone like Arthur had and…
Kayne tsked . “I think she's a little stunned, folks, let's all have some patience, yeah?" The crow laughed and hooted. "Faroe, Faroe, Faroe... don't make me wait! This has been six years in the making, baby doll. You are a success. Your presence (and your opinion and your happiness and your love ) forced these idiots to work together and be interesting enough that you don’t get canceled tonight! Isn’t that lovely?”
“Canceled?” she whispered, and memories stuttered into place. Similar words, something about a mini… mini show? Something, from that night, years ago—
“Hey, that’s pretty good,” said Kayne. “Good memory you got, there. Bet you made some new ones tonight, eh? You two, reaching toward each other like some famous ceiling painting! You, fucked in the head and sure he was going to kill you, but reaching anyway! Him, uncaring if he fucking died as long as you didn’t—and just making it in the nick of time, because you were about to pass out, and then he wouldn’t have gotten to you quickly enough if you hadn’t reached back. Wow. I mean, wow. I couldn't have planned it that dramatically.”
The audience began chanting her name.
She'd never hated her name before. She hated how it sounded now, ugly, violent, like a club in each hand, coming down. She shook and looked at her fathers again.
Arthur was sobbing, on his knees; he’d beaten his hands bloody, trying to get out. Smears hung in the air, on nothing, showing where he’d tried hardest.
Hastur had practically torn out the floor; it was like a meteor had landed on him, divoting, but he could not break through. Whatever Kayne had done clearly locked him in from above and below, too.
They couldn’t help her... but maybe she could help them. Slowly, Faroe looked up. “If I play, will you let them go?”
The audience cheered.
His grin was brilliant and shiny and white, and there were definitely too many teeth. “Brave little thing. Yes.”
Such a simple answer had to be a trap—but she couldn’t risk it. “Fine. What are we playing, Kayne, worst secret friend in the world?”
That title cracked him up, and she clutched her ears again as glass shattered somewhere in response to his levity.
Gasping, she yelled. “Well? Are you just going to… fuck around? ”
Well, maybe that wasn’t the way to go, because he laughed even harder, slapping his knee, and paced like a tiger. as if this was just so great that he couldn't hold still.
Faroe looked at her fathers.
No, she thought. She would not be crushed by this. She braced herself, reached behind her, and used Hastur’s throne to stand. (Like Arthur had, pulling himself up by a sword he made himself, like Hastur had, even after he'd had to do the worst thing, like—)
“Ooh,” said Kayne, low, his eyes lidded. “I liked that. You really are worth all that effort, maybe. Maybe. Still a kid. Well, anyway. Are you ready to learn what you’ve won ?"
“Yes,” she said, as if pronouncing her own doom.
He raised both hands, legs apart, as if posing for some kind of explosion. “A second season!”
And the crowd roared, louder than at the games, somehow more human than at the games, wild with anticipation.
"What?" Faroe called over it. “A second season? What does that mean?”
“Six more years, baby-doll. I don’t kill all of you for six more years.”
She stared. “ Kill? ”
“Your dad’ll explain the fine print later,” Kayne said, waving his hand, and abruptly shoved a plate with a slice of cake into her chest. “Take it.” He smiled. And it was a warning.
Her hands trembling, she did.
The cake was weird. The frosting was shades of brown, like rotten fruit, and it smelled like a peach left long on the ground, putrescent. Bile filled her mouth. She did not eat.
“So!” he said. "Let's see where we are, shall we? Not a forced family anymore, and while I have personal preferences on that account, I hear you.” He shouted at the ceiling. “I hear you! Conflict resolution! Declarations of love! Old plot lines revived! Punishment! I hear you, cheese and crackers!”
The audience laughed. Some asshole bellowed, That's what I said!
Faroe swallowed again. She was so tired; her body was done, fight-or-flight reserves already tapped, but Arthur had stood, and so would she. “Will you get to the point?” she said as imperiously as she could.
“I like the schtick, doll, but don’t push it,” he said. “You get to choose.”
The audience went oooooh.
“Choose?” Choose what? She wracked her brain. She’d missed something.
He watched her twist, his smile eager, hungry, cruel . He was waiting for her to ask.
She’d agreed to play—and whatever else Kayne was, his warnings and specific promises had always been true. She clenched her healed hand, memories of flesh melting too close to the surface. “Choose what?”
He winked at the ceiling and said, “Hastur. Arthur.”
The audience murmured, uneasy. She waited. He didn’t add to the sentence. “What?”
“Two choices, babe. You get one vote. You can’t abstain. No ties. You have to choose. Hastur. Arthur."
Choose what? Choose what?
She couldn’t do this. How could she do this? What did he mean? What was he asking? “I request more information.”
“No.” He angled the mic away from himself, and the crowd said ooooh .
She stomped her foot. “That’s not fair! I don’t know what I’m choosing!”
“Sure you do. Hastur. Arthur.” He laughed, arms out, and spun on one foot. “Choose!”
Choose?
It had to be death. He’d already talked about killing.
All the spells he’d taught her were cruel in some way. And Arthur didn’t even want to talk about what Kayne had done. And her father…
Her father was afraid.
She had to choose who was going to die tonight. Faroe put her hand over her mouth, trying not to sob. She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t ready to say goodbye. Not to anyone.
“No one ever is, baby doll,” said Kayne in a mockery of gentleness. “You’re out of time. Choose, or I will, and oh… you will not like that penalty. You should ask your dad how it goes when my words are ignored. ”
Get him a body bag! Yeah! some guy in the crowd shouted, and they all just laughed.
She swayed. For one moment, just one, it almost drowned her. This choice. This weight.
“Five,” said Kayne.
Arthur had stood.
“Four,” said Kayne.
Her father had done the hardest thing for her tonight and wept tears of gold.
“Three,” said Kayne, holding up three fingers.
“I’ve decided,” she said, because she had.
Divorcing herself from the emotional angle. Stepping back from them being hers. From what she’d learned tonight. From the brand new beautiful things that helped to heal the horrors she’d seen.
She had to view this as an adult. She had to view this as a queen . The least harm to the most people. The most good to those in need. If someone was going to die, it had to be Arthur—because her father could bring him back. If Hastur died, Arthur would love her and be there—but he couldn’t bring Hastur back, and Carcosa would be in trouble.
She couldn’t think through it more than this. Felt like her brain stuttered and fell, face-first in the mud. She could not emotionally engage.
A drum roll began, low and menacing.
She spoke, and to make them proud, she tried to speak like the queen she was meant to be. “I choose Arthur to die,” she whispered instead, and then burst into tears.
#
Nothing happened. There was eerie silence; even Kayne was quiet, as though waiting for her to get it together again.
She couldn’t shut it off right away. Hitching, choking, she finally dared look up.
Arthur was alive. Staring at her, clearly shouting her name. John kept trying magic, splashing gold along the invisible barrier, to no effect.
Did that mean…
She spun, terrified.
Hastur was alive, still trying to power his way through, his gold robe ichor-stained, his ragged half still fluttering as he tried with all his power to reach her.
Faroe was so confused she didn’t know what to do.
“Aaaaand we’re back!” said Kayne, and the audience cheered. “Excellent choice, baby doll! Real smart! I mean, I’d prepped for both options (and that’ll be fun when the other plays out) but honestly? I was hoping you’d choose him. Too much l-u-v and outright sappiness otherwise. Boring!”
“Wh-what?” she said.
Kayne snapped his fingers.
The barriers disappeared.
“Faroe!” came from both sides, and suddenly, she had them back.
Her fathers, both of them—and she and Arthur were both in Hastur’s arms, off the ground and half-hidden. She had them. They lived. They lived.
"My daughter," Hastur cried, his voice broken.
"Faroe!" Arthur cried.
Faroe! John cried, and both Arthur’s hands took hers, squeezing them, comforting.
What had she chosen? What had she done? “I’m sorry,” she gasped, clinging. “I don’t know what... I don't know what I did!”
“Well it’s been a good night, folks, with our breakout star (pretty good show from a kid whose first scene in this show was grkk, you know, dead) , but it’s time to wrap up.” The audience cheered wildly.
“Go fuck yourself!” snarled Arthur.
“No,” Kayne said. “She picked you, loverboy.”
What? breathed John.
“Couple of notes! Don’t make me repeat them, now.” Kayne counted on his fingers. “One! Arthur’s off the no-kill list. We all know you’re not going to do it, anyway, so that limitation is pointless.”
What the fuck? John demanded.
“Quiet!” Hastur snarled, focused, rapt.
“Someone learned his lesson,” Kayne said in a sing-song voice, and counted his second finger. “Two: new stars! Can’t kill them. Can’t send them away. You’re smart. You get the idea.”
Hastur got the idea. “Yes.”
“Good!” And everything froze.
#
Hastur stood alone, facing the being he’d tried to find a way around for six years, who now scared him more than anything he had ever known.
There was nothing here in this place. A vague blue-gray light, and nothing else. Eternity in emptiness. Hastur made a low, strained noise.
“And three… I don’t like you,” Kayne said, and it echoed, the words sound over and over again from all directions.
Hastur trembled. “I know.”
“I don’t like you… less than I did, though? The utter misery works for me. Crunchy heart, all in pieces . But still. I don’t like you. So here’s what I’m thinking, Golden Boy.” Kayne approached, and as he did, his guise melted away, and what he was came out to play.
Hastur fell back, crying out, huddled in terror.
Shadow bled from the thing “Kayne” had hid, madness threatening even Hastur's mind, and the next words burned themselves into him like brands. “She gets six more years. It’ll be played out at that point; I’ll probably move on. But you? You.”
Hastur panted, not daring to run, not daring to anger him more.
“I'm thinking I might just kill you, anyway.”
Hastur felt like his hearts stopped. He stared.
“Am I being greedy? Having my cake and eating it, too? Yeah, sure, but I mean, easy win, right? Everyone is gonna love season two. But you? You’re the one who did the shit. You did it all, didn’t you? Why, it was all… your… fault.” And his voice dropped low to a pleased and terrible rumble, eager, expectant, hungry.
Hastur’s whisper was nothing. “Yes.”
The darkness writhed, relishing. “You have to pay, don’t you? You know you do. You should hear their cries… they want you to suffer, bucko. They want you to hurt. That’s only fair, isn’t it?”
It was. He hadn’t suffered enough. Not for what he’d done, what he’d wrought. He could see that. He deserved… more. "Yes," he whispered, head bowed, because it was right.
So would end the King in Yellow, Lord of Carcosa, fool.
But six years—that wasn’t enough time. If he were dead, who would protect them? They wouldn’t be safe. They would be prey. He couldn’t make them safe in six years. No one could. Hastur made one soft, helpless sound. "Wait..."
“That was lovely! Heartbroken is a damn good look on you, bubby.”
”I need more time,” he whispered, ready to bargain whatever misery this being wanted.
”No,” said the Faceless One. Then he flicked Hastur's mask. Hastur cried out. It reverberated, that pain, shocked him, briefly blinded, flashed through him like lightning, and he found himself flat-out on the ground, whimpering helplessly. He reached up and found a chip in the mask that was his face, an eerie, sharp jag along the top right edge.
“You can’t bribe me, no matter how pretty that was," Kayne said, withdrawing, shrinking back into his guise with every step. "Six years. Good luck making it aaaaall work out.”
And time started up again.
#
Hastur was where he’d been, protectively holding his family ( his family ), unable to breathe.
His grip tightened. Fragile. They were all so fragile. His face hurt so much, throbbing with his hearts.
“Guest star number one!” Kayne bellowed as if there’d been no interruption.
Trumpets played.
“What the fuck?” came a new voice, a male voice, a heavily accented Bostonian voice, and a man came stumbling into the spotlight as though thrown.
Arthur twisted toward him.
Arthur? said John. Arthur, it… it can't be.
“Parker?” said Arthur, his voice going high and fragile.
“What?” Parker challenged, clambering to his feet. His clothes were a mishmash of Dreamlands commoner fare, as if he’d stolen it all off various washing lines, and they were sweat-stained and torn. His hair, long enough to tie back, was greasy and in his eyes; his boots were worn, and his beard was half grown in. “ Arthur?”
Arthur gawked. Tears began rolling down his face. "Parker? Put... put me..."
Hastur let him down.
Arthur staggered toward that voice, and his breath hitched once. "Parker? Y... you're alive?"
" You're alive?" said Parker. "Fucking... you... son of a bitch, you're here?"
The drum rolled. “And guest star number two!” said Kayne.
Watch out! a new voice snarled.
But not new. Not at all.
“I got this,” soothed Parker, but it didn’t matter at all.
Arthur stopped as though he’d been gut punched. “Yellow?” he choked.
MURDERER! the voice cried.
“Easy, Sunny,” said Parker.
No! Parker, get away from him! He’s fucking dangerous! Yellow snarled. He'll hurt you! He... he'll... get away from us!
Arthur staggered back as if punched. He shook now from head to toe, his breath going shuddery and shallow, his voice a soft whimper.
The drum roll abruptly resumed, and the orchestra began building, louder and louder, adding percussion, strings, brass—“And of course, what’s a new season without a new villain?” Kayne cried, and his eagerness made the room tremble. “Guest star number three, straight from the wilds of the sweetest digs in the Dreamlands! Covered in the sins of his youth, filled with power from the nastiest rituals you’ve ever seen, scion of the Order of the Falling Star, and one of my favorite puppets… Wallace (ace… ace…) Larsooooooooon!”
The music exploded into chaos, a gargantuan blare of discordant noise, and the audience joined it, booing, shrieking, hissing and howling.
"What? What is... where am I?" came a syrupy drawl, smooth and unafraid, and Larson staggered into the light, dressed in colorful finery good enough for Court, with dragon-hide boots, with jewels sewn into the seam of his cloak, rubbing his eyes as though briefly blinded.
Arthur went completely stiff, as rigid as if he'd been electrocuted. It seemed he no longer breathed.
Hastur, John warned.
“What’s happening?" said Larson mildly, unafraid, confident. “I do declare… my, my. What is this place?”
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand action!" Kayne bellowed—and disappeared, along with the spotlights, the crowd, the ambient noise, leaving them all alone in Hastur’s throne room.
The silence was deafening. Then, it was broken.
“You!” Larson snarled... at Parker. “Thief! How in the hell did you get loose again?”
“Oh, fuck this guy,” said Parker. “He ain’t getting you back. You hear me? Try it, asshole!”
Parker, I’m scared, said Yellow quietly.
And Larson spotted Hastur, and fell at once to his knees, arms raised. “Oh… oh! Nilgh'ri l' vulgtmah Uh'eog ph'nglui Turor! Llll ahornah, h' ahuh'eog nilgh'ri! ” he proclaimed in R'lyehian, pronouncing what had to be worship.
Hastur! John cried.
Without a sound, Arthur lunged at Larson with every intent to tear him to shreds.
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Notes:
Wow. What can we even say?
We wrote this crazy series as a love-letter to Malevolent. We're playing in the sandbox, raising castles (and razing them, too), and honestly never expected that anyone else would enjoy the mess we made like you wonderful readers have.
Thank you all for your comments, your encouragements, your reactions. They've meant more than you know - and ensured that we would actually WRITE this thing instead of just going, "Wouldn't it be amazing if..."
As for this forced FOUND family, their story isn't done. We're already working on season two—though we might need to catch our breath before we post it. :)
Thank you for trusting us. <3 Hopefully, you enjoy the ride to the end the way we are.
And thanks again to Harlan, who is awesome, and made these dolls for us to play with in the first place.
See you in season two. Love, Trin, @sepiabandensis, and @sparklyandheroic
Surrogate, Season Two Announcement! 9-17-23
And the INCREDIBLE @sepiabandensis has painted this for us!
AND the incredible @captaincravatthecapricious has painted THIS for us:
Coming 9.17.23!!!
ME FR RIGHT NOW
Refrain, chapter four - a Malevolent fic (The start of Surrogate, season two!)
Kayne's "season one" ended with a choice: whichever father Faroe picked, he was ready to let that slingshot fire.
She picked Arthur. Well, that was nice, wasn't it? Especially since he'd spent almost a year pulling that rubber band back, loaded.
Of course, he had no idea how well it would work. Humans are weird, and pieces of Hastur seem to respond particularly well to prolonged exposure.
It was time to deny a wicked man his prize.
Time to give a good man a second chance and see what he did with it.
Time to take the abused piece of a god and find out how it changed when given to someone else.
Part of Surrogate, a Malevolent AU. Written with @sepiabandensis.
AO3 (chapter four)
-------
They got used to sleeping outside, when the weather permitted. They also got used to welcoming other travelers.
These moments, to Sunny, were unreal. Seated around a campfire, sharing stories; lying beneath blankets of stars. The freedom. The living.
Maybe Parker was right. Even if they eventually did get caught… maybe this was worth the journey.
#
Parker-watching was a good thing to do. Sunny liked when they were in places with reflections; he could see the planes of Parker’s face, and the steady, sharp gaze that missed nothing.
Sunny also noticed whom Parker watched. And whom Parker… watched.
In one small town, within spitting distance of Myngar, they took a room at an inn with some fantastic roasted fisher-bird. The rice-like grain from the nearby floodplains made a light, flavorful beer that was easy to drink, hard to overdo, and just potent enough that even Sunny was warm from the buzz.
Sunny had taken a liking to people-watching, as well. It was good to keep an eye out while they were on a case, but there was a certain kind of simple beauty in watching others, humans and otherwise, go about their lives. It reminded Sunny of a lifetime ago, when he had watched strange and stilted dancing in a bar in Addison, but it was so much better.
Today Parker’s gaze wandered, dragging Sunny’s along with it, but when it got to the bar… it lingered.
The barkeep’s son was a tall, handsome man with lowered lashes and a shy smile who seemed keen on keeping Parker’s glass full. Sunny did not miss when their hands brushed against at another exchange of a glass. He also did not miss how the man’s gaze lingered, too, sweeping back towards Parker, and how Parker met and held that gaze. Sometimes, when the man leaned just right, it was if the flavor in Parker’s mouth changed. Almost like hunger. Almost.
You prefer the male form, Sunny observed.
“Yeah,” said Parker, still watching the guy.
You like that form.
“Kinda,” said Parker. “Guys like that, they know how to move. I like spreading ‘em. Like butter on toast.”
Sunny thought for a long moment. If you wish to indulge, I will not interfere.
Parker had a coughing fit. “Buddy… come on, I’m not doing that to you.”
Larson did. I learned how to… step aside. Away. To put myself away.
“To what?” said Parker, soft. “You what?”
To remove myself from it.
“What, you… you dissociate?” said Parker, recalling the word from a case four years ago. “Are you serious?”
Sunny seemed lost. Yes?
Parker put his hands around his beer. He was silent for a long moment, and no longer watching the barkeep’s son. “I’d rather you didn’t do that, buddy. I’m not gonna put you in a position where you have to.”
But you deserve pleasure, Sunny said, intensely. You deserve good things.
“I’ve had plenty of fun. You know what’s not fun? Screwing over a partner, you hear me?”
It was Sunny’s turn to be silent for a long moment.
“That son of a bitch,” Parker muttered, and did not bring it up again.
#
Two weeks later, Larson hired non-magical goons—natives to the Dreamlands—and these, Parker found harder to spot.
The group caught him fair and square, dragging him out of a town before he’d reached an inn for the night. They beat him up. They threw him in a half-wrecked room with a heavy door and locked it, then got rowdy-drunk in the main room to celebrate the payday they’d snagged.
Parker used a board from the bed and a block from the wall and levered the door off its hinges while Sunny hissed, Yes, Parker!
From that point, they both were a lot more careful.
#
I never want to go back to him, Sunny told Parker after the fourth failed capture. He spoke with the same desperate pleading he’d used when begging Parker not to hurt him on the day they had met. Parker, please. I never, ever want to go back.
“I hear you, buddy,” said Parker, breathing a little hard as he jogged in the wilderness. “But if they catch us and we can’t get out, that only leaves one option, you know?” And Parker wasn’t Larson; he never used Sunny’s words against him, so he didn’t say, you didn’t want to die, or anything like that. He just let it sit. This was Sunny’s hand to play, however he wanted to play it.
Instead, Sunny began to recite a poem.
If we must die—let it not be like hogs Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot, While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs, Making their mock at our accursed lot, If we must die—oh, let us nobly die, So that our precious blood may not be shed In vain; then even the monsters we defy Shall be constrained to honor us though dead! Oh, Kinsmen! We must meet the common foe; Though far outnumbered, let us show us brave, And for their thousand blows deal one deathblow! What though before us lies the open grave? Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack, Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!
Parker sounded stunned. “Oh,” he said, softly. “That’s… that’s it. That’s… everything. You just… damn, Sunny. That’s… that feels right. What is that? And don’t say ‘a poem.’”
If I can’t say it’s a poem, Sunny said wryly, I will call it a war cry. I will not let him take me. I won’t execute you to do it, but… It would be an honor to die by your side, my friend.
Parker set his jaw. It was a good sign; Sunny knew that by now. It meant Parker was ready to throw himself into something, head, hand, and foot, heart, soul, and spirit. “I’m in. I won’t let them get you, if I got any say in it. Let ‘em try.”
#
They said this man was strong. Had knocked out a casting sorcerer, somehow, with just his fists.
They said this man was smart. He’d reinstated the true rulers of Karnath, unraveled the mystery of the Mummy Caves, and somehow brought peace to Princess Y’thgna in her final moments.
They said he was also on some kind of personal quest to taste every single food in the Dreamlands.
Of course, all of that couldn’t be true. But it sure was fun to talk about.
And people did.
#
Parker traveled smart, and kept their head down, sticking to crowds; and so they got to hear the news.
The Games were in Carcosa. (And Sunny waxed eloquent.)
Carcosa was attacked. (And Sunny freaked out.)
The Carcosan princess was missing (and Sunny twisted, trying to figure out who the hell that could be).
The Carcosan princess was found (and maybe was human, and Sunny didn’t believe that at all).
A storm like no one had ever seen crash-landed in the Middle Sea. (And Parker and Sunny were very glad they hadn’t gotten to the coast yet to catch a boat towards Carcosa, because every boat on the water had been turned to toothpicks.)
This slowed them down a bit. Parker knew they were being chased, but… when the storm finally passed, everything was kindling. The closer they got to the sea, the more damage they found. People wept; voices cried names, hoping for response against impossible odds. The wounded moaned, sometimes still trapped in buildings that had fallen.
Parker couldn’t just keep going. He knew they were close; Carcosa was across the water, or so Sunny said. But they couldn’t ignore all of this. “We gotta help, Sunny.”
Sunny had lapsed into that heavy, meaningful silence, but at last: I agree. People are wounded, or hurting, or need to find family, and that is what you and I seem to excel at. Plus, there’s talk of Carcosa being allied with Celephaïs, now—we can always go there to resume our quest, after we’ve helped.
And Parker had to say it, because he wasn’t in the business of tricking Sunny. “Means we’ll be in the crosshairs. And in one place longer than we should be. You still up? Because I am.”
I’m still up, my friend. Larson we will deal with when he comes—we always do. His voice still trembled when he talked about Larson coming after them.
“Glad to work with you, buddy,” said Parker. And they dove in.
#
They weren’t caught for three weeks. Maybe Larson hadn’t considered they’d stay behind, risking themselves. Maybe he’d just assumed they’d avoid the worst of it, because (both were sure) he would have.
But they stayed, and they helped, and though Parker tried to keep it all under wraps, the weird hooded guy with the wisp of gold in his mouth just wasn’t something people wanted to keep quiet about.
#
“Mister,” said a woman one night. “Please. You’re the one helping people, right? Please.”
Parker was tired. Sunny was tired. They hadn’t even had the chance to enjoy their truly excellent hot and sour soup. “Maybe?” said Parker, turning. “What’s up?”
She was a worn woman, tired, too thin. She’d chopped her hair off rather than trying to maintain it in all the chaos, and her clothes were threadbare. “My son. Please. He… we thought he was getting better, but he’s not,” she said, wringing her hands.
“I can’t make any promises,” said Parker, because he always did, “but I can at least try. Where is he?”
“Oh, thank you! Thank you!” she sobbed. “This way. I’m sorry, it… my home is on the other side of town.”
“Eh,” said Parker. “Nice evening to stretch our legs. Lead on, ma’am. I’m Parker. Nice to meet you.”
“Pah… Pakah,” she repeated. “Cill.”
“Hi, Cill.” And Parker did a thing that he sometimes did: he offered the soup to the woman.
Sunny didn’t sigh this time. They could get more soup. They would. That looked really good, too.
She looked shocked. Took it. And, her eyes filling, she turned and hurried off.
Parker followed at speed, hood up. “Spot our tail yet?”
I can’t tell. I still think you’re right and we’re being watched.
“I’m sure we are.” His gut was never wrong. “You ready to move on yet?”
They’re not ready.
“I agree.” Parker navigated around a cart filled with debris, being taken for burning. “Let’s just be careful.”
Cill wasn’t kidding; her home was more than just on the other side of town. It was outside it, on the outskirts, far enough away that its flickering, candlelit windows shone in the night.
So this felt suspicious as hell, but the woman’s distress was real. Her glance, over her shoulder, was desperate and just a pinch guilty as she clutched the soup to her chest and went inside.
Had Larson hurt some kid? “Batter up,” Parker warned softly, and stepped in behind her.
It wasn’t a wealthy place. Essentially one room with bits of mismatched furniture here and there, it had a single bed with a boy, a child who had to be five, at most. Half his face was bandaged; the wound, whatever it was, had turned, seeping brown, and did not smell good. The boy’s breath came fast and shallow.
“Aw, kid,” said Parker softly, and headed for him.
Sunny let out his insubstantial breath. This will be an easy one. It’s like we did for that woman in Thraa, remember? I’m going to let you do this one: focus, and let my magic flow through you.
“Yeah, that’ll work. Cill, how’d he get hurt?” But her look made him pause.
She kept glancing behind him.
Parker looked. There was nothing there. Oh, boy. “Cill?”
“He… when the shipyard was destroyed. It was flying debris. Nails and wood.”
“We can help him.” Parker needed her to know this. “Okay?”
Her look was pleading.
Why does she keep staring at us like that? Sunny’s voice was low.
“Pretty sure it’s a trap, but that kid is really hurt,” said Parker.
“Now, I wasn’t gonna let such a golden opportunity pass by,” said Larson, and he appeared from shadow, hand held palm down over the kid’s head.
Sunny gasped, but it was almost second nature as he took hold of Parker’s voice. “Larson,” he said, softly. “That’s a child. An innocent. Don’t hurt him. Please.”
“You,” Larson sneered, “ain’t in a position to bargain, you truant little shit. Now, let me talk to the big man.”
Parker took in a soft breath, his jaw his own again. “Speakin’,” he said. “You’ve got us where you want us. Yeah? Let the kid go.”
“Sure. Soon as I really get what I want. You are gonna hold damn still, aren’t you? No spells. No tricks. This little game of ours has been fun, but it’s over. I win.”
More men stepped out of the shadows. There was real power here; this must have taken days to set up.
Cill was softly crying.
The kid…
Parker, Sunny whispered. The kid.
They were on the same page, but they’d only get one shot—and only if Larson was distracted. Sunny began prepping the spell like a slingshot, and Parker drew focus back to himself. “So much work for just one guy, right? I must’a really busted up your plans. Whatever they were.”
“You’ll never know them,” Larson smugged.
“Really? I got a few guesses. Educated ones, even.”
“I don’t care,” said Larson, baring his teeth a little.
“No? You don’t even want to know how I keep getting away from you? Just some guy from Boston, fooling the Great White Hunter?”
“What you’ve been, boy, is lucky. And I think we both know why.”
Parker could feel the magic building. Just needed to keep him talking. “Because I’m smarter than you?”
“Because of what you stole,” Larson snarled.
Parker leaned on his accent, knowing without question that it would grate on Larson’s nerves. “Didn’t steal nuttin’. You know, Lahson… for all we’ve been playing cat and mouse, you haven’t showed up all that much. Ah ya scared?”
Larson was turning colors again. “Just trying not to crack the chamber pot too soon,” he snarled.
“Ooh. Funny. Get that, Sunny? He’s calling you shit.”
I’ll fucking show him shit, Sunny muttered, the power coiling beneath their tongue.
“Enough of this,” said Larson, and his goons shifted, in position. “Stand down, or the kid dies.”
Parker could do that. After all, Larson didn’t say not to speak.
He relaxed his jaw, his lips, his tongue. He gave Sunny his mouth. And Sunny sang.
The power flowed from them like a wave, surging over the kid, bandages burning away as the infection was purged and the wounds knit themselves closed, sight even returning to the eye that was mangled. It was golden light, pure poetry in R’lyehian, and Parker could feel his face smiling as it left a golden glow of protection sweeping around not only the boy, but Cill too.
“You can’t hurt them now,” Sunny said. “As it turns out, this shit don’t stink after all.”
Parker laughed.
Larson stared as if he fully believed they’d gone mad. “That was your shot? Are you out of your damn mind?”
And they came at him, fists and ropes and anger, too much to fight through—but not before he saw the gratitude on Cill’s face.
Take that, you asshole, he thought, and tumbled into darkness.
#
They say he single-handedly turned the tide of the death-toll after the Storm in Zakarion.
They say he lost his life there, captured by whatever evil tracked him down (and various Dreamers imagined this immortal clash as various things, from angels and demons to good and evil enfleshed).
They say he even saved the child of an enemy before he died.
They say a shrine had already been raised, and there would be more. No one would ever forget the names of Pahkah Yang and Sunny, his golden friend.
#
There would definitely be no further chances to get away.
Parker woke and found himself bound to a ridiculous level; chains and ropes, up his arms and legs, around his torso. Every finger had been individually tied. There was some kind of muzzle on his face, keeping his mouth from opening, its straps digging into his cheeks. He couldn’t even turn his head—blocks had been strapped to it, keeping it straight.
Well. It had been a good run.
Honestly? He’d always believed he’d die young, but here, he’d gotten to live twice. He’d helped people. He’d seen things so few had, and really loved this new world.
It was Sunny he felt sick for.
Parker didn’t really know from spells. Not really. But the things Sunny had described about that last one—the one the Outer God interrupted—made him certain Larson had been about to do something terrible to Sunny. Sunny was the one in real danger here.
Parker, Sunny said. Can you hear me? Blink twice if yes, three times if—well, I suppose I’ll know if the answer is no.
He could blink twice. Easy. Also, ow. His head hurt. Whoever did him had done him dirty. Fuckers, he thought, and really wished he had a way to silently communicate with Sunny.
He didn’t want Sunny feeling bad over this. They’d done the right thing, even if it meant capture.
Oh, thank the gods, Sunny said. His voice was soothing and gentle—Parker was reminded of how Sunny had spoken after he’d passed out, when Sunny had healed his bullet wound, what might have been a lifetime ago. I… This is perhaps selfish of me, but… I was afraid of being alone. I’m glad you’re still here. He went quiet for a moment. I’ve decided… I think there are some ways for me to fight against him now. I promised you that I wouldn’t go down without a fight, and I’m going to keep that promise.
Parker blinked twice.
Sunny let out a soft, desperate laugh. Thank you, Parker. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I feel like, maybe, I did something very good. That we did something good. And I don’t know about you, but I can face my end with… fewer regrets. He took a lungless breath. If I have the opportunity, I’ll make it quick for you, my friend. And I’ll look for you on the other side.
Two blinks. And Parker set his jaw. He was all in.
Heh. Heh, heh. Fuck. Somehow Parker could feel Sunny shudder. Should I try to fill our time? Talk? Close your eyes for two seconds if no, or… one blink for poetry, two blinks for songs, three blinks for… something else, I suppose. I’ll figure something out.
Three blinks. Always, he encouraged Sunny to explore. That was just who he was. Consistently.
Sunny knew who Parker was. Parker had lied plenty—Sunny had seen him do it, to get out of things, to get information. But never to Sunny. Parker had tricked, too. Fought. Been quite aggressive… but never to Sunny. And Parker had always had a reason for doing those things, and explained. It made everything better, somehow. Good. Living.
Parker’s heart raced now, of course. His wriggled attempts did nothing. There would be no getting out of this.
Sunny sniffled. Something else, he said. You know, I don’t remember tasting anything before you. I think the entity that put me in Arthur’s head ensured I remembered nothing. So I think that made this the most wonderful. To be able to taste.
“Mmmm,” Parker agreed.
This is perhaps a bit embarrassing, Sunny said with a laugh. But I think the sweets were some of my favorites. I really liked that sipping chocolate we had in Jaren. I think that might have been my favorite—at least of the drinks.
Parker chuckled just a little. A couple of tears slipped down his face, but he said, “Mm-mm-mm,” encouraging.
My favorite meal, though, was when we had—do you remember, Parker, when we had to catch that fish, on the Oukranos? A real laugh, now. And despite the fact that we had it in a trap, it still took us twenty minutes to catch the fucking thing. You got all wet. It tasted so good, though, probably because we were both tired. But you were laughing, and I was still having such a good time. It was like we didn’t have to worry about anything but—
“Fucking hell, you two,” said a bright voice, a strident voice, a voice that Parker sort of knew. Had heard briefly. Most recently, when something pulled him to the roof, when they were going to be caught. “If I wanted mush, I’d have bought the damn cable package.”
Sunny gasped. Parker, it’s him! The Outer God!
“Mmm?” managed Parker, because what the fuck? What does he want? he thought.
“Eh. The usual. A better lemon pie. Six Amy May Wongs with some sharp toys. A better use of time, for fuck’s sake. Anyway! You’re all wound up. Ready to go. It’s time to fulfill your actual purpose, babes.”
That sounded bad. Parker couldn’t see him; he wanted Sunny out of this. Maybe he could bargain.
“Nope, sorry. He’s blow number two to that tender psyche. Ciao!”
Parker! Wh—
Wh—Parker was ripped from the restraints (it hurt, damn it) and hurled.
He hit the floor, staggering into blazing white light that took his sight, into some… presence that thrummed through the room and made his skin tingle, and discordant trumpets hurt his ears.
If this was the Pearly Gates, they needed a tune-up. “What the fuck?” he cried, blinded, half-deafened, staggering
“Parker?” came a voice.
A voice he knew.
A voice he’d listened to, and coaxed to laughter, and pulled into intense detective work, and thought about, and jacked off to, and dearly loved until the owner of that voice had turned around and strangled him dead.
So was he dead again? “What?” he said. “Arthur?”
He turned and threw his hand over his eyes—that was it, that presence, too grand and huge to look at, blinding-bright golden robes shimmering with faint patterns that bloomed and died in his vision, and some sort of limbs like waves of ink spread along the ground.
And he could feel that if not for Sunny, tucked into his head, he would have been overwhelmed.
Buoyed in those tentacles were two people, nestled up against the robe, one a little girl, and the other—
A voice that was and was not Sunny’s spoke. Arthur? Arthur, it… it can't be.
“Parker?” Arthur Lester said.
Arthur… something terrible had happened to him. Scars pockmarked the right side of his face. His hair was long and sweat-sticky, falling past his shoulders. His beard was salt-and-pepper, and gray threaded through the hair at his temples, and those eyes—
They were still fucking yellow.
“Put…” Arthur said, looking up into the darkness of a crowned hood on that massive shape. His voice was ragged. “Put me…”
Gently, tenderly, the tentacle set Arthur on the ground. Arthur staggered forward on weak knees, but his face wasn’t quite orienting the right way.
John had his eyes, Sunny had said, and Parker swallowed.
They weren't looking directly at him, but they sure could still cry. “Parker? Y... you're alive?” Arthur said, voice cracking (and Parker had not forgotten, had not lost any of the memory of that voice).
There was so much… much. Right now. Had Sunny been right? Arthur had murdered, and… vanished? To this place? "You're alive?" said Parker. "Fucking... you... son of a bitch, you're here?"
A snare drum rolled. “And guest star number two!” that voice rang out, the voice of the Outer God.
Watch out! It was a desperate cry, sharp and snarled and full of terror.
“I got this,” soothed Parker, though he absolutely did not.
Arthur stopped as though he’d been gut punched. “Yellow?” he choked.
Parker winced, just as Sunny began to seethe in the back of his head. MURDERER! Sunny cried.
“Easy, Sunny,” said Parker.
No! Parker, get away from him! He’s fucking dangerous! Sunny snarled, a dog with its leg in a trap. He'll hurt you! He... he'll... get away from us!
And then it got worse. Impossibly, it got worse, and it got complicated.
The drum roll rioted, and instruments blared from nowhere, painfully loud. “And of course,” cried the Outer God, his voice weirdly distorted and echoing, “what’s a new season without a new villain? Guest star number three, straight from the wilds of the sweetest digs in the Dreamlands! Covered in the sins of his youth, filled with power from the nastiest rituals you’ve ever seen, scion of the Order of the Falling Star, and one of my favorite puppets… Wallace (ace… ace…) Larsooooooooon!”
The music shrieked, and an unseen crowd bellowed.
And Larson stepped into view, staggering like Parker had. "What? What is... where am I? I do declare,” he said, smooth and calm like this happened every day. “What is this place?”
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand action!" the Outer God bellowed—and disappeared, along with the spotlights, the crowd, the ambient noise, leaving them all alone in a dark throne room, in thick and near-complete gloom.
It still hurt to look toward that being, whatever it was, though Parker briefly couldn’t see anything but silhouettes. “Fuck,” he murmured.
Larson heard him. “You! Thief! How in the hell did you get loose again?”
Hastur, said the voice that was and was not Sunny's.
You’ve got to be kidding, thought Parker, and wondered if this meant they were all in hell. “Oh, fuck this guy,” he said, wanting to lend Sunny strength. “He ain’t getting you back. You hear me? Try it, asshole!”
Parker, I’m scared, said Sunny, which made him feel half-feral.
But apparently not all feral. Not nearly as feral as Arthur.
Parker knew Arthur. Knew him as a man who’s studied another for years can know, and saw the change. Even in the gloom, he saw the switch flip.
Saw the moment that body language stiffened, saw the moment Arthur’s brain turned off.
Larson turned toward that radiant something that hurt to look at, fell to his knees, and proclaimed a bunch of gibberish.
And Arthur—
Hastur! shouted not-Sunny’s voice.
Arthur lunged with murder his every inch, teeth showing in a white rictus as though he planned to bite Larson to death, fingers curved like claws.
Maybe it’s not hell, Parker thought. Maybe I’ve just gone crazy. And with the habit born of years past, of chasing this man down from the time he was self-destructing in Jack’s Bar to their most twisted child-murder cases, Parker ran after Arthur Lester to stop him from doing something dumb.
Already missing Sunny and Parker
HEAR ME OUT HEAR ME OUT
I know this song is Christian in origin, but I feel like the lyrics can really fit Parker and Sunny (especially Sunny)
Quick someone show Surrogate! Hastur “Slipping through my fingers” by Abba, I wanna see how quickly he breaks down >:)
The Girlboss in Yellow (croptop)
Bonus drawing with Faroe from Surrogate because Trin told me Hastur would absolutely wear this just to make her laugh <3
I present to you all: me rambling about Surrogate to my dear best friend out of context. Because I NEED to shout about it to someone
Going to cry!
It makes me so emotional that Faroe can now start seeing him as her dad, and he can finally start treating her like his daughter
It is SO funny to me when fans of the Surrogate Series (and Hastur fans in general) call Hastur slut. Because they’re right, he is one.
Note - a Malevolent fic
What note did John’s soul sing? At long last, he had the answer. The note was desperation, and his soul sang a chorus.
Part of the
What note did John’s soul sing? At long last, he had the answer. The note was desperation, and his soul sang a chorus.
Part of the Surrogate series.
AO3
-----------
Through the window, Faroe trained.
She'd been training too hard. Hastur knew this, could see it—she was exhausting her small self, beginning to lose some of the age-appropriate roundness of her cheeks.
She also wasn’t just smiling anymore when not speaking to someone, and in the wake of that loss, Hastur ached. Hastur grieved. Hastur burned.
Deep inside and silent, Hastur howled.
He didn’t know how to fix this. He didn’t want to accept the advice he’d been… given, but what else could he do?
Was he the only one being offered such things? Maybe it was time at last to ask a question he’d put off because it had terrified him so. Inaction there had only worked out by chance, and ignoring it was no longer the best option.
He had to talk to John.
#
[What?] said John, automatically responding in R'lyehian before switching back. We’re not doing that anymore, you asshole.
Hastur sighed. “I don’t want to upset Arthur. That’s all.”
Sure you don’t!
Arthur sighed. “I don’t care, John.” It wasn’t the right chord. He knew the feeling he wanted for this crucial moment in the Rite piece, and just wasn’t landing on it.
But he wants to do some secret shit!
Arthur snorted. “Look, I appreciate… all of that, but I need to work, all right? Please just figure it out so we can get back to this.” He resumed his chord progression.
John huffed. Fine. Stubborn ass. There was more affection than should be allowed in such words.
Arthur smirked. "Apparently." The warmth in his tone could not be missed.
Hastur was very good and did not comment on it.
[Well?]
[“I was wondering, of late,” said Hastur in his own tongue, “whatever became of those offers you were evidently receiving.”]
John was silent.
[“From other Outer Gods.”]
[Yes, I know. Fuck. I’ve tried not to think about them.]
[“Why? What did they offer? Do they still offer? That’s my concern.”]
A lie.
John sighed. [It was just so… fucking tone deaf,] he said. [All of them offered variations on the same thing: revenge on you. None of them offered saving Arthur. If they had…]
[“I knew that much from before, John. Please elaborate.”]
John’s left hand paused on the piano.
Arthur sighed. “Really?”
Sorry. Almost done.
A lie.
[Why do you fear for us? Did something happen?]
[“Yes. I killed my son, damaged my daughter, sent my marked into terrible danger, and now must undo the damage I did to the latter two as well as to the piece of me which has earned his freedom. You could say something happened, John.”]
A truth.
But not all of the truth.
John sputtered. [What, you want me to think you’re giving up on joining?]
[“With you, yes. I know you’ll never leave him. Why else do you think I’m establishing you both as an entity to be respected?”]
John sort of choked. It took him a moment too long to answer. [Bullshit!]
[“John, are they still tempting you?”]
John growled. [No. They stopped about two years ago. I never replied to any of them. The offers slowed down and stopped.]
Cold terror gripped him. Only two years ago? They’d continued for so long… [“That is a relief.”]
[Hastur, we need to talk about Gokar’luh.]
Oh, fuck, that came out of nowhere. Hastur froze.
Hastur.
“Thank you for your time, Arthur. Try a c minor seven with the tonic base,” said Hastur.
Arthur did. “Huh. Yeah, that's better. Thanks.”
Hastur.
[“You’re right, John. I know you’re right. But I can’t do it now.”]
[It doesn’t have to be now, but we fucking need to talk about him. With Sunny. He doesn’t know, and… for whatever reason, he remembers more than I did about a lot of this. We need to talk.]
The King in Yellow was completely still.
Hastur!
“We will. I’ll… find a way.” And he fle—
No, not fled, not retreated, just headed back out of the music room because he had to deal with problems, had things to take care of, had things to do—
As I said before you panicked—irrationally, I might add—while it is categorically too late to save your son, it’s not at all too late to save your daughter.
Hastur swung suddenly and looked out the window as though that had been his plan the whole time.
Automatically, he checked his spells. They were working; no one could hear his uneven breath, or see his falling tears. Down below, Faroe tried again to raise the hammer over her head, to bring it down on the rocks as Arthur often did. She didn’t manage; she had to keep stopping, breathing, working little healing spells on the muscles of her back.
This couldn’t continue. The voice had been right. Why are you helping me with this?
I already told you, Tattered King. It is pure bribery; when the time comes, you will choose my exit instead of his.
Hastur leaned on the window. My daughter…
Needs help. And if you act now—I repeat for your sake—it will not be too late. I know you value her well-being above your own, so this is a logical offering. Now: will you be logical in response?
Hastur was silent.
I am aware you are in distress, but it is hardly necessary to be a child.
‘Distress’ did not cover it.
Faroe had to go to her next lessons, and with a scowl, she put away the tools too big for her. Nibbles nudged her; Nibbles, obviously, was not on board with this new path of self-punishment, but didn’t know how to fix it.
Neither did Hastur. But unlike Nibbles, he was an adult, and had resources.
Hastur headed off to his throne room to finish up what he had to do there. Then, he would talk to the Librarian; then… well. His new allies might—might—know something, though how to broach the topic without giving everything away…
Fuck. There was no time for this, but he would make the time. Faroe’s needs trumped all, and she was not okay.
What else did this voice have to offer? What else would it take advantage of before the end came?
Either way, best not to alienate it. Thank you.
Of course. I do enjoy you logical. I suggest you build that pattern; it will make our future easier.
Sure. Whatever.
He shuddered, glad the Outer God had not pressed further. It was terrifying, being spoken to like this. Being offered the most important thing out of nowhere, unable to block it out, unable to hide. Baffling, that John hadn’t been offered what he wanted. This mystery god was too smart to miss something that obvious, so... it hadn’t spoken to John? Why?
He hoped John was telling the truth, and that he wasn’t being bothered anymore. Hastur had wondered, years ago, what note John’s soul sang that drew these horrible beings to him. At long last, he had the answer.
The note was desperation, and his soul sang a chorus.
Just had a very cute Surrogate fic related thought
Hastur loves Faroe
Hastur also loves cats
Therefore, if Faroe were to wear a cat onesie, I think he’d instantly flatline on the spot from how cute it is. How to kill a god 101
She pops out like: “Behold!” Hastur instantly keels over clutching his chest
SOMETHING'S COMING!
From the talents of: SSJTrinity | @late-to-the-magnus-archives Kraiva | @sepiabandensis Somniate | @sparklyandheroic Flamia | @flamdoodles Vmprsm | @vmprsm Jasper | @captaincravatthecapricious LynnLarsh Isi @eldritch-asmr Fish
(poster by @kraiva )
IT'S COMING
From the talents of: SSJTrinity | @late-to-the-magnus-archives Kraiva | @sepiabandensis Somniate | @sparklyandheroic Flamia | @flamdoodles Vmprsm | @vmprsm Jasper | @captaincravatthecapricious LynnLarsh Isi @eldritch-asmr Fish | @unsafewaters
(poster by @flamdoodles)
IT'S HERE - AND IT IS PODFIC TIME!
But oh… there it is.
Three years in the making.
More than that in the planning.
Oh… oh, it is satisfying. Every inch as much as he’d hoped.
SURROGATE: THE PODFIC
IT'S HERE! Maybe not three years, but several months and countless hours of work have passed to bring to you this first part of many in a work of collaborative audio art, a recreation of one of the most insane and expansive fanfiction series in the Malevolent fandom: Surrogate: The Director's Cut.
Fully scripted, cast-acted and with audio effects, some of the fandom has come together to attempt this monumental task, and we are overjoyed to finally let you hear it.
What is it?
Well, you'll have to listen and find out won't you? Make good, peons, I don’t have all century.
Stay tuned for future recordings! If you'd like to assist in upcoming acting or crew, contact @vmprsm on Discord or Tumblr.
Someone show Faroe Lester Yellow Disney’s Brave right now. She would absolutely love it
Meet Hastur!
If Surrogate Faroe ever gets a partner in the future, I am going to feel so SO sorry for them having to get the shovel talk from the entire family, lords give them strength!