Listen. The New Episode Was Absolutely Wonderful And Delightful To Listen To, However, I Do Need John

Listen. The new episode was absolutely wonderful and delightful to listen to, however, I do need John back immediately or I will start biting people

Guys I've been thinking about John and Faroe and the fact that had they met I doubt she could do literally anything wrong in his eyes, like in a world where she lived and is like eight or something and Arthur has to scold her for a regular thing and then he gets an earful from john in his head arguing Faroe's case like "arthur you never told her she couldnt do that you just said 'dont touch the stove' not 'dont play with the stove even if you have gloves on'"

She makes one of those little kid snacks where she just grabbed random items from the kitchen and there's a raw egg and uncooked oats and a cookie and she presents it proudly to Arthur and before arthur can even react John's going "Arthur. Arthur eat it. Tell her it's good Arthur, tell her she did a good job"

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

Christ the amount John must have been yelling at Arthur this episode. It had to be from The Butcher's perspective to save the episode from only being 'ARTHUR WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING' 'ARTHUR STOP ANTAGONISING THE MAN WHO WANTS TO KILL YOU' 'ARTHUR DON'T FOLLOW HIM' 'ARTHUR' 'JESUS CHRIST ARTHUR' for 45 minutes straight.

Love that everyone agrees Collins is sexy

I need fanart now please

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