The Soundless Plains, or "How I learned to stop worrying and love the retcon."
Posted: Posted April 11th, 2019 by Zepeon
Nostalgia is a bitch, no matter which way you slice it. Like the glamorous conjunction of one's local bar hag after one-too-many shots of Blackberry Brandy - Ol’ Zep's preferred drink of choice - nostalgia too, hides and distorts the hideous truth of one’s own situation. In either scenario, one flirts with disaster, and lest ones’ mind be held by the viscous claws of sentimentality already: one would be better off without that cognitive drug. These warnings aside however, Ol’ Zep did not re-emerge for the sake of nostalgia, he was here with a purpose.
“The Soundless Plains…” Ol’ Zep would say with a tut, “What a stupid fucking name. Why not Silent Plains instead?” He’d ask himself this, grinning half-heartedly as he made his way through this field of banality. An almost Mercurial aura would consume him, as his walk would pick-up speed from a leisurely stroll into a hasty march, his stringy brown hair flying within the momentum of his tweaked out gait. Dressed in your stereotypical bum-wear, with an outdated black V-neck, tight blue jeans and brown zip-up boots with holes in them. The toes of the boots would flop about ridiculously, revealing his bare, unkempt and pale white feet with every step, blasting the smell of dirt and fungi every which way.
After a decade and some change that he had spent wandering, he was finally here - and with his first move, he had already ruined the ambiance of the plains, as the sound of leather slapping leather rang on from below. He couldn't help but laugh, Silent or Soundless, the name of these plains wasn't just a misnomer, it was a narrativist disaster. “Hell,” He’d say aloud, “even my name is fucking stupid.” He couldn't help but arrive to that conclusion, it was after all, a rip-off of Gundam Wing, like many other things in his sordid career.
Yet in spite of all of his commentary otherwise, he couldn't help but feel a tinge of sadness as he looked upon this place. Like a memetic pulse, it would reverberate within the back of his skull, spreading outwards as a coagulated memory in the form of a blunted feeling. Though it would linger only on the edges of his perception, as if it was the haunting melody of a song that’s been long forgotten, yet continues to be hummed mindlessly. Could it be that this was the journey that he was on the whole time? Or maybe, just maybe, Time is indeed a flat circle, and his wandering only added weight to this pessimistic conclusion. It didn't matter - he was here now.
It was funny, after 13 years he would have figured he’d have done this by now. Yet like always - he had no shortage of things to do, things of which were infinitely more pressing than whatever the hell he was doing presently. To return to where it all started, which in itself was undoubtedly a touch mythical, stupidly sentimental, and yet all too true to his character.
Like Ulysses to Ithaca, like Dante and his escape from Hell, so to has Ol’ Zep returned to his place of origin, quite unlike the other two however. He was no more redeemed than when he first started, and certainly not wiser. He’d wager he was even more foolish than he initially was.
With a deep breath he’d stand within the center of this field, tucking his hands within his jeans pockets, looking around at all of the sights of… what vaguely resembled Kansas. Like a veritable green-yellow sea, overgrown grass would stretch all throughout this place, reflecting the gentle light of the dawning sun as it made it’s slow ascent up from the East. But Sol would not be alone in this picture, as Luna could just as easily be seen, prominently and fully descending into the West - and between them, the patchwork quilt of stars would continue to sparkle within the deep blue of the sky, as if in stark defiance of Sol's all-consuming splendor.
Deep in the pit of his stomach, he could feel it, like an instinctual gnawing on his spine. It was in this field of ephemeral beauty that he had came from, and likewise would have to return too.
This was where it began - though what actually began, Ol’ Zep wasn’t so sure. All he knew is this is where it started, and that if he had any inclination to resolve whatever it is, then it would be in his best interest if he returned to the source material - as insipid, overpowered, and frankly unoriginal as it all was.
Here is where a boy would retreat from the harsher elements of reality, unknowingly nurturing a zealous pursuit of escapism that would follow him well throughout his life - little did he know, in search of freedom, he would find only oppression.
“Think not of the cruel children.” He would quietly quote his Shadow underneath his breath, “Just substitute your own reality instead.” He would chuckle grimly as he recalled this advice, the cornerstone of drug addicts, the mentally unwell, and weaboos with... questionably crunchy body pillows. Though whether it was bad advice or no, he would follow it - and in time the shoe would fit. He was a drug addict, up to the tits in madness, though he was no weeb and for that he could thank his lucky stars.
Like a psychonautic, Eris lovin’ ant, he burrowed through so many reality tunnels in search of something, and in time, it would ultimately bring him back here.
Though while he was certainly physically alone, he could not help but feel as if he wasn't. The sound of the silence would begin to emit a high pitched tone in his ears, and his body would become numb. The field itself would even seem to become alive and grow larger - before he realized he had fallen over onto his hands and knees. With their target compromised the ghosts of his past quickly ambushed him in the present. The vision of his misdeeds would begin to erupt, now no longer just a subconscious regurgitation of ambiguous emotion - but a great clamor, a deluge of places, faces, things and beings would invade his mental vision.
There he beheld various worlds destroyed with cataclysmic beams of pent-up psychosis, historically ignorant Hitler-esque speeches that would be given upon flights of fancy, clan wars would erupt and subside with uncertain victors, and amidst all of this chaos, names would be switched and replaced at will. If he wasn’t Zepeon, the self-styled Prince of the Eclipse Saiyans, he was Dainos, and if not Dainos he was Carne Mancator, and if not Carne Mancator, he was Sintuneric. Though even within these four names there exist a myriad of others - all equally inane, all equally absurd.
He would gently place his left hand on his forehead, feeling the dull scar of the Majin Mark (\/) that faded with time, though for the life of him - he could not recall when he had it, or when he lost it. It didn't matter, none of it did… not anymore.
In the face of this: how would one best move forth? Would they simply pick themselves up, stiffen their upper lip, and promptly carry the fuck on? Or - if given the option, would they start over? In a world where change is ones’ only consistency, and what resists that change the longest is held sacred, wouldn’t it be far braver to chance it with chaos? To begin again, or so the song goes? These questions would swirl around Ol’ Zep’s head, but he had already known the answer. His shadow would become larger, and he’d stare over his shoulder toward the sky. It was high noon, and Sol was directly overhead. “Now or never Zep… make your choice.” He’d think to himself, before looking back at the ground below him.
There a peculiar red glint caught his attention, at the very edge of his shadow. Ol’ Zep would look towards it, entranced. “What is this thing?” He’d whisper to himself, as he moved his hands toward the source of this light. Beginning with his left hand, he’d wrap his fingers around the stems of the grass and pull - de-rooting the plants entirely and throwing them to the side. He would then repeat this process, sometimes switching hands, as he cleared away this space. Pull after pull, he tore away at the grass, the light only increased - tantalizing him further, and as Ol’ Zep brushed off the dirt he would see the source.
It was, of all things... a button? Ol’ Zep would scratch his head as he looked at this thing, approximately 9 x 5 x 2 inches with a smattering of dirt atop and a golden, circular base. It was unmistakably a button, like some toy a child forgot long ago. It would reflect a purplish-red tint as Ol’ Zep looked at it, bringing his face closer to this strange plot device. With a single deep breath he would blow the rest of the dirt off this button, and laugh at what he saw. In giant, bold white text, he could read the word: RETCON.
Could he be so lucky to find this? Would it do as it said? Will Ol’ Zep-... oh, he already pressed it. Well that didn’t take you very long, did it?
He would joyfully, excitedly, and perhaps even slightly iconoclastic-y laugh once more, as the Sun sank into the East, and Luna rose from the West. Colors would blurr all around him - before finally, blackness in the bottom of a porcelain white toilet bowl. Zep wasn’t in Kansas anymore, in fact he would be quite a bit aways - he was home. Vomiting once more - finally letting loose of the hot dog that was giving him trouble. Bits of partially dissolved ketchup and mustard, interspersed with bits of meat and cheap brandy would bob up in down in the bowl. The putrid smell would send Zep reeling backward, as he pushed himself away from the rim and sat on his arse with his back against the wall. Combing a bit of meat out of his beard with his right forefinger, breathing raggedly as he did so, he’d laugh derisively.
“That is the last time I get so self-indulgent… and eat a hot dog with a bun.”
(OOC: Hey all, nice to see some old familiar names again! It's been ages.
Honestly, I was happy enough to just kinda forget about this time of my life - but I decided, "Fuck that." Running away from my past never resolved my feelings about it, so I figured I'd return and pay homage to this very cringey character of my writing career. And no, not that impostor from years ago if anyone recalls.
I decided to do this a bit differently however, going for a quasi-meta, Discordian inspired, retcon approach. There is no coming back from god-moding and power tripping while retaining any coherent canon, so the best way I could think to pay homage was to shoot the miserable beast in the head. Enter the story above. :)
Hopefully you all enjoyed it! I was going for more of a self-depreciating, dark humor vibe.
Apologies for the length and formatting. I hope it wasn't too jarring! I might even make additional RPs soon, but no promises, my life tends to pull me away from the computer.
I do however ask that no one inserts their character in this, for obvious narrative reasons.
Great seeing you guys. :D)
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