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The Fiction Machine

Chapter Text

You are a man in a plaid leather coat. A bowler hat sits firmly atop your head, and a cigar rests on your chapped lips. Puffs of smoke surround you like Raccoons around a particularly rancid steak. And like that steak, blood is soaking the ground around you. You do not seem worried about that, however.




Your name is Thomas Evins. In front of you is a large, pod shaped machine with a neon blue glow. Inside this machine is your life’s work. A humanoid sits in it. They seem to be fading in and out of existence, flickering as if they were an MP3 file from 2012 loaded onto a shitty Windows XP. They are clothed in a black shirt and grey jeans. You cough a bit red, your bedraggled mood becoming apparent. You seek out an armchair, and succeed, leaning back in contemplation. In from stage left walks a maid in crimson, setting a metal tray next to you and promptly absconding. You grab the tea from it, sipping, careful not to let anything stain this special suit of yours. Ah yes, this suit. You have saved it for specifically today.




Fine, fine. This machine, or rather, this limb of the machine, which in actuality is about the size of planet fucking Jupiter, can take a single infant, and make five different beings of different ages, ethnicity, memories, etcetera. They can mimic anything you want them to, they don’t even have to be human really! And today is the day the first batch is ready to be released into the world. The day you will finally see the fruits of your labor. It is time.




You flip the shit out of some switches with great vigor despite your physical condition. The ceiling lights up with various fluorescents, and suddenly the exhilaration gets to you, why haven’t you been this excited before, today is the day, TODAY IS THE MOTHERFUCKING DAY! The totality of your accomplishments sets in as you spin one final dial, and the room fills with teal smoke. It’s time to finally see the light of your life finally be brought into it. Your hands are shaking, lips trembling, knees weak arms are heavy, there's blood stains on your shirt already.

The fog dissipates.

She is standing before you, Libra symbol blazing on her top, jagged nose and all.


Another figure enters the room

“Wh4t th3 4bsolut3 fuck1ng SH1T?!?”




It has been One hundred, thirty seven years since five clones of fictional webcomic character Terezi Pyrope were created in a secret off world laboratory by some weirdo with an alien fetish.

It has been One hundred and twelve years since said machine, in making a batch for fiction pop star Hatsune Miku, the machine went haywire, consuming the entire staff of the factorial planet and using their DnA to pretty much double the population in the Human Confederacy. Shortly after, Districts were set up to segregate the fictional character because honestly who wants to see Sans and Ness whipping jokes back and forth to each other at the local Walmart. Wait, scratch that, you would pay fucking MILLIONS to see that. Most Humans wouldn’t though, for some arbitrary reason.

It has been One Hundred years exactly since all Humans created by the machine were officially considered non-humans. A nickname would come around some time after that, “Figments.” It stuck.

It has been Seventy Four years since your kind decided to cut themselves off from the Confederacy, creating their own government. Seeking  a sense of identity, the term Figment remains.

All this stuff is taught in Kindergarten to the new Figments. Oh yeah, since all Figments are naturally sterile without having a shit ton of surgery done to them, the government has just auctioned off spaces in the annual machine batch to couples.

You were part of a batch Twenty years ago to parents Peach and Bowsette.




Your name is Link Toadstool, fifteen year old adventurer.

And your uncle Waluigi has invited the family over for dinner.

Chapter Text


The mansion looms overhead in the pouring rain. Spiked tops soaring into the sky like. forks stuck in a rotisserie chicken. Cobwebs are washed away down the street as you pull into this massive house. Other cars are parked in the driveway as well, of various shapes and models. One catches your eye. Slick, vibrant purple, with a hood ornament nearly taking up the entire hood in the shape of a zig zag ‘stache. Uncle Waluigi’s.
“Ok Link,” says Bowsette, maneuvering her head around her seat, “We finally made it. Get out you little scamp.”
You do as she says, feet plopping on the wet ground with a little splash. Your parents get out as well, a little nervous. Bowsette has on her good dress, the collar nowhere to be seen. Peach looks as she always does. All of you have umbrellas, shielding you from the storm above.
All three of you make it up to the front door, sheathing the umbrellas as you do. Peach knocks on the door three times, and all of you stand together as thump thump thumping approaches. The door opens with a creak. Greeting you is the lanky old man in purple you have come to know.
“WAH! So nice to see you all!” His breath reeks of the recently deceased, his yellowed teeth taking up his whole face as opens his mouth. “Why, Link, you’ve grown so much! Come ‘ere, give your uncle a hug.” You reluctantly put your arms around him as he does you, although his arms are so long they extend quite a bit past you on either side, forming a set of idiotic wings. You hastily retract the hug, as does he, with less haste.
“You, Peach, though, don’t look a day older than we last met. Your not looking too bad over there either.” Bowsette pretends to blush, but you can sense the aura of distaste around her. “Oh, let’s not waste any time! Come in, come in. Wipe of your shoes on the mat. Or don’t! Not like it matters anyway, there are so many guests it’ll be impossible to keep the place tidy in any way. Onwards!” With that he rushes in, arm outstretched as if he were holding a sword. You all enter.
It is a surprisingly orderly place. The chandeliers are dusted, the walls don’t have any holes, the eccentric carpets are left being bad only in way of eccentrics; this is not the place you expected your Uncle to live in. The only times you have ever seen him was when he came to your house. You wonder why he doesn’t invite you in more often?
The halls are filled with Figments talking to each other about current affairs and other such modern nonsense. Your parents usher you off to go meet and greet as they talk with some of the other princesses in attendance. Sure, why not. There aren’t a whole lot of familiar faces outside of a couple cousins. You feel a tapping on your shoulder.


A set of fuzzy bunny ears. A small thing, split in half with color, one side white, one side pink. They are wearing a fine silk bib. Mechanical wurrs surround them.
“Hi there,” they say, in a hushed and feminine voice, “I’m Monomi, one of this home’s various robotic assistants. Would you like me to get you anything to drink?”
You blink a few times. Weren’t Cyborgs and the such outlawed from district 12 long ago? You knew Waluigi didn’t have the greatest respect for the law, but… huh.
“Yeah, I’ll have a Mr. Pib, thank you.”
“Coming right up.”
With a little ding, you find that she has materialized a Mr. Pib in her left hand. How the what?
“How the what?”
She giggles, putting the drink into your hand for you, and waddles off. You are left with little time to contemplate what just happened as another tapping is rapped on your shoulder. You spin around to see a boy about your age with big buck teeth and a small pair of glasses.
“Uh, hey. My Ma’ and Pa’ think I should be getting to know the other kids here, so hi. The names’ Harry Anderson. Nice to meet you?” Their hand is outstretched, wobbling. You take it firmly, pumping it three times.
“My names’ Link. How do you know my Uncle?”
“Oh, Waluigi?” He pushes up on his glasses. “My Dad is a, uh, a Wario.”
“I know plenty of Warios, he’s a pretty popular choice for villain families. Got a Family tag?”
“Huh, doesn’t ring any bells.”
“Yeah, we just moved into the District. Mom didn’t like the school system over there.”
“I see.”
You two go on to stand there for a minute looking at each other awkwardly like complete fucking idiots. You break the silence.
“You listen to any good bands?”
“Eh, I’m not big into music. The only band I really listen to is Red Vox.”
“Oh I know those guys. I think one of the old singers for them might actually live down from the street from me.”
“You mean Vinny himself?”
He seems absolutely giddy. “Wow, I didn’t know the programmed HIM into the machine, I thought I was pretty much the only fanboy they had left! Oh this is great, can you introduce me to him some time?”
“Sure thing bud.” You flash him a thumbs up. He does a little hop, hugs you for a brief second before realizing no that's dumb, and walks away. One face down, so many to go.


Dinner goes off without a hitch. The table was a bit too short, so a few people had to sit on the floor, but overall the food was good and the gossip was better. Leroy Jenkins has been dating Junko Enoshima? Holy shit. Nothing else of any importance happens though. Just a fine little night. It ended with a couple fireworks, which were probably smuggled here from district seven. You planned on staying longer, but you parents left once the Minions got drunk, those little yellow pieces of trash. And so ends one night of many in district twelve.

Chapter Text







You are now a Yellow Shit Goblin, more commonly known as a minion. Your goals in life are only to serve the biggest, baddest, and most brilliant minds the Districts have to offer. A few of your kind, however, have more in life than that.

Minion intelligence is directly linked to the number of eyes they have. One eyed minions are the most bafflingly neanderthalic, Two eyed minions are little better, Three eyed minions are capable of thinking in the ways of a C-Average middle schooler, and Four eyed minions are the smartest, equipped with the ability to finish college, if they had the determination. You specifically have four eyes, and as such find that there's more to life than obeying the bigger. You want a family, for starters.

That being said, you'll never back down from your duties as a minion. Even in the wake of your previous master Gru's untimely departure, you can't find it in yourself to abandon this lifestyle. This is why you and a dozen other minions are currently inside the lab of Doctor Robotnik.

He eyes you quizzingly, neck craned farther from his egg shaped body than should be possible, hand to his chin. He paces around the lot of you.

"Yes, yes this'll do nicely," he says softly. "Lord knows I need all the help I can get with the Robotics ban, simply too visible to hide fleets like I used to."

He strides back to the front of the hot lavender lab, resting his stomach-butt in a fancy swivel chair. "It is decided. I accept your offer."

The rest of the minions jump for joy, high fiving one another, screaming idiotic statements like banana to each other. The only ones left out are you and a Three eye with a bowtie. Bowtie with overalls? Fascinating.

"All of you, say your names so I can whip up some name tags." He fashions a quill and small pocket book, hunching.

Most of the minions start making eldritch gnawing sounds, confused as to what a 'name' is. The three eye steps up.

"Minions don't usually have names, sir. We uh, we just call each other numbers ."

With this, the other minions seem to piece together what they needed to, and start calling off numbers. 137, 6598, 4402, 4000, 9961, etcetera. After they finish and Robotnik finishes his writings, he turns to you.




"Nah fuck that call me Greg."



With a tug the great big cerulean curtain was whisked off a blackboard detailing the plans for that night's heist. You were on Taskforce Purple, and sent to Waluigi's mansion that night to gather Intel. What you didn't expect to find was rainbow lights flashing from inside the house and a full parking lot. But you weren't about to call off the mission, too much was at stake. You glance over at the Three eye, who you now know as 413. He nods. You nod back.

You and 413 were accepted into the manor without a hitch. So many people were invited, Waluigi must have assumed he just forgot about you two when you arrived at his doorstep. The air reeks of sweat and citrus. The people, standing around awkwardly, are unaware that anything is wrong. Perfect.

You signal for 413 to stand near the entrance-way and call you if anything jeopardizes the mission. He nods once again as you make your way up the rickety old staircase in the leftmost corner. You continue past the second floor, the third, the forth, and now you stand before a metal door with a dial lock. You push your ear into the cold hard surface as you fiddle with the dial. Turn to the left, right, shit that was too far, try left again, now over to five, let's see…

A hissing sound comes from the gate as it is swung open with great haste, but no steam lets out. You lean into the opened safe and peer in.

There it is.

You walk over to the briefcase and open it.

Orange light seeps out.

Close it, lock it, make it down the stairs, throw it out the second story window. It lands next to the horses in the back.

Mission accomplished.

Thud Thud, oh shit, someone's coming.



"Hey, why are you just standing there?"

A teenage girl is circling around you, floating half a foot off the ground. Her hair is short and pitch black. She wears a black silk dress with a red satin lining. She has her head tilted at you, brows furled and mouth puckered.

"Come on, it's a party, why have you just been standing there? You shy?" She prods at you with a sharpened fingernail. Ow.

"Hey," you say, "quit it." She does not.

"Are you like one of those old British guards, not allowed to move and all that? Man, this Waluigi guy is c-l-a-s-s-y ." She giggles, revealing a pair of rather large hanging canines. She lands on the ground. "So, how do you know Mr. W?"

You stand there, not wanting to break cover. A minute passes. Then two. She holds a glass of punch. Now three. Four minutes gone by, she hasn't left. You hear a loud thud outside.

"Can you at least tell your name? Look, i'm Mavis. See? Aint that hard."

You cave in.




"Oh, uh, I don't really have a name. My friends call me 413 though."

She nods, not unlike you have been doing a lot of. "So," she inquires, "are you friends with the big man, do you work for him, I mean what's your deal?"

You put both hands behind you back and take a big breath. Oh boy, time fib. "My dad knew him back in college. That's pretty much it."

"Ok Mister Numbers, but that doesn't explain why you've been standing there."

You shoot her a sharp glance. "Hey now," you speak in a slightly irritated tone, "maybe don't be so pushy , huh?"

"Well soooory Numbers, didn't mean to push your buttons. I'll go now." And so she does.

Suddenly, a robotic voice booms across the cluttered halls. Its high pitched, but with a bit of a rasp.

"The Jukebox will be fixed momentarily. Until then, enjoy some nice dancing music, courtesy of me, Monokuma."

Notes start to fill the dampened air. Hey, you know this song. Seems like someone else does too, as you hear Mavis exclaim "HOLY RABIES" with the joy of a toddler enjoying their first Lunchable. She zip zooms back towards you. The crowd has already started doing the dance.

"This is my favorite song, I-I I uh," she stammers a bit, "I need someone to dance with, NOW." Before you can object, you've been flown to the center of the party.

Shit, guess your dancing now.

You let the energetic lyrics guide you.


~ Dale a tu cuerpo alegría Macarena
Que tu cuerpo es pa' darle alegría why cosa buena
Dale a tu cuerpo alegría, Macarena
Hey-eeeeyy, Macarena (Aie!) ~



You are now Greg again, covered in manure and mud with a fractured femur. You have just been thrown out of the fucking window, and you aren't feeling so good. If you had to rate this experience, you would give it a Big Gay out of Ten.

You lift your head up with the sound of sloshing. Wiping off your goggles reveals a couple of lanky figures, no, one lanky figure in purple, another, more averagely built man in a black trimmed business suit and tie. He has an Afro.

Waluigi hunches over and looks you dead in the top two eyes. "Soo, thought you could steal from me, did wah?"

You start muttering curses in your native minion tongue. Oh please god, if your there, please don't let me die, you think. Oh shit oh shit, please, please please-

"Speak up you little rAHnt. I can't understand a word your saying." His Pinocchio nose is pressing up against your goggles. Oh fuck oh fuck, you continue to mutter.

The other figure stomps in the unsettled earth.

"ENGLISH MOTHERFUCKER. DO YOU SPEAK IT?" His voice nearly breaks another bone by itself, it's so powerful.

You can't speak. Not even in minion.

Your wind has been knocked out.

And pretty soon

So will your blood.


oozing oozing.




"Wasn't even worth my time. Pathetic." The suited man spits right on your stab wound.

Your body is snuck behind the manor, hidden among some trash bags. Eventually, the sun rises on your decaying corpse. A boy finds it shortly before you were supposed to be carried away.

Harry Anderson is mortified. You don't care, of course, your dead, how could you. But if you could say one thing to him, if you were still alive, you would say

"Sorry you had to see that kiddo. Feel free to grab my wallet, the bozos who stabbed me forgot to check my pockets. Dumbasses."

You do not say this though.

Because you are fucking dead.

He does not take your wallet.



You are now 413. You are currently making out drunk with a teenage vampire in a restroom. All things considered, this was probably the best outcome.

She parts her lips from you, still connected by a brief string of drool. She has one hand on the wall, the other cradling your tall yellow body. She laughs.

"You know, I never expected to kiss someone with three eyes before. Oh, but your good. Sure you don't have a name?"

You look up at the sky. Should you have a name? You think.




"You know, I always considered myself a bit of a Jeffrey."

She traces your puffy cheeks. "Well, I suppose now's the part where I give you my phone number, huh?" Poof, sticky note with a number, slapped right in between your bottom two eyes.

She curtsies out of the men's bathroom, waving with a soft "~bye!♡" Holy shit that's hot.

"YAAAAAH," comes from behind one of the stalls. "THAT'S HOT. AAAAH, ITS HOT."

Needless to say you skedaddle the fuck out of there, limping from side to side. Is there booze in the punch?

Halfway down from the second story, you see it. A golden chandelier. It beckons. You there. New name, new GF, new you. Come and fucking swing.




You attempt the dangerous and highly controversial 3X rebel transformation combo.

You fail, landing with a splash in the punch bowl. You soak everyone nearby. Including a woman dressed in pink and wearing a crown.

Hey, who else can say they got punched by a princess at a party?

You take it like a champ.

New name.

New GF.

New you.

Chapter Text

I am working on a far better plot for this. I am workshopping a general layout of the events to take place within the first act. As such, I will leave this previous version of THE FICTION MACHINE up as a relic.
I want to really make this work, so it will be a while until the next story comes out. If you wanna see it when I start releasing it, make sure to keep an eye on this account.
If you wanna satiate your desire for a really good crack crossover story, check out Scoobs and Shag over on Webtoons, they are doing this concept far better justice than I ever could. (It gets better)
I guess I will also plug my Soundcloud here because why not.
Well, see ya early to late fall I guess.