Chapter Text
The Time Room was just the same as it has always been. The place between space and time. A place that Scarab had once desired to call his own. The yellow lights that refracted from the walls were warm and soothing, the steady thrum of time waves being sent out from the Time Core could even be felt in the main room. If he shut his eyes and focused, it was almost like he was there.
For just a moment, the Scarab allows his 2D form to relax, shifting down the wall slightly.
As he rested his form, he could hear the sounds of persistent typing on a keyboard. The quiet tapping away seemed much louder in Scarab’s mind, drowning out the warm thrill of the Time Core under his carapace.
...Prismo. He clenched his fist around his broom. Once again souring his mood with his drilling presence. Everybody's pal Prismo! Prismo quite literally only had two jobs: grant wishes, and keep an eye on things, and it was like he was incapable of doing either. He couldn’t even allow the Scarab one moment of brevity.
“Hey, Scarab?” a lax voice broke Scarab out of his brooding.
“What do you want, Prismo?”
“Well, I uh, I was wondering if you could maybe look over something I’ve been writing?”
This wasn't the first time Prismo had asked him to read one of his ‘fics.’ It had become somewhat of a common occurrence during the Scarab’s time being imprisoned in the Time Room. Prismo’s stories were exceptionally bland and sickeningly sweet. Typically, they were some action story featuring some run of the mill hero with a heart of gold. And to top it off, it seems as though Prismo types faster than he thinks. Considering the horrendous amount of typos that litter his early drafts.
“I suppose, since you are obviously incapable of writing anything intelligible, I will clean up after you like always.” Scarab moves towards the computer, carefully balancing on the seam that connects the wall to what he currently considers the floor.
“Wait, dude. You don’t have to if you don’t wanna it's fine really, I-” He cuts Prismo off.
“The computer, Prismo.” Prismo jolts and slides through the floor to the adjacent wall.
For as long as he could remember, Prismo had been the only conscious being to live in the Time Room. Sure, he had friends that would visit, like Cos, and people always came to his parties when he threw them. Though he hasn't really been feeling it since Jake had moved onto the Deadworlds.
But now, Scarabby has been here for a couple of months, in Ooo’s time at least. Prismo had hoped that maybe he’d soften up a little bit after staying with him for a while, but he still seems set on ‘doing his job.’ Which he decided was to clean the infinite halls of the Time Room. A task Prismo saw no merit in. It's not like the rest of the cube was that dirty. The good news is Scarab has actually been responding to him! Now, whether this was from boredom stemming from being stuck to a wall, or a place of genuine interest, Prismo did not care. It was nice to be able to have someone to talk to.
Prismo watched as Scarab’s eyes tore mercilessly through the text on the screen from the other side of the room. To be honest, he's kinda thankful that Scrabby actually reads over his stuff. He types faster than he can think most of the time. And it at the very least seems to get the ex-auditor to chillax for a moment. Plus, he had a good feeling Scrabby might actually like this one.
The short story Prismo was having him read was… different from what Prismo usually writes. It's more, well, gruesome. It follows the journey of a lone Knight sent out on a mission to infiltrate a rival kingdom. She was tasked by her Queen to gather reconnaissance and to avoid being captured at all costs. While it’s clear that Prismo doesn’t know how a proper Kingdom works, Scarab nonetheless finds himself enraptured by the Knight's gory journey.
Prismo was starting to get worried, even though time doesn’t work quite right in the Time Room it had been quite a few time waves and Scrabby was still reading the short story he wrote, emphasis on short. It started getting awkward after the first dozen time waves, Prismo picked back up his favorite crochet project. He wasn’t making anything really, it was just a seemingly infinite blanket. When he summoned the project, its end rolled out the doorway and hung out into the vastness of the surrounding space. It wasn’t infinite though, he knew he was on row 9,153,015. Prismo needed something to take his mind off of the awkward silence, and he didn’t want to turn on the TV and distract the beetle while he was reading something Prismo had asked him to, so crocheting would have to do. He had only managed about 20 rows before that familiar pain creeped up his wrist. He shook his wrist out a little bit, before sending his project off to the place where he Stores Things. Well now what is he supposed to do? He thought, loudly, sliding down the wall further. He closed his eye for a moment and squeezes his wrist a bit to urge the pain to die down before looking over at Scrabby. He assumed the ex-auditor was still reading, because he hasn’t said a thing since he began. But when he finally zoned in on Scrabby, he wasn’t typing any notes like he usually does, and when Prismo really focused he could hear a low buzzing trill, just quiet enough for him to have to strain himself to hear it. He supposes he should break the silence.
“So, how bad’s the damage, Scrabby?” the buzzing immediately halts and the laptop is snapped shut.
“Kingdoms aren’t run like that, there are systems and levels of authority you just completely ignored.” Prismo shifted up slightly, to pay better attention. Scarab continued his retort, “and a king would not be so unprotected. There is no way, despite all of her skills, that the Queen’s Knight would be able to corner him alone on a balcony, let alone during such a huge event like a Civilian's ball, in which a king would rarely make an appearance, let alone participate.”
“Pretty light critique coming from you, dude. I thought you might like this one, it got a bit away from me, I suppose- a little dark.” the Wishmaster flicked his eyes to the closed laptop. It was clear to him that Scarab held back his dissection of his knight story, if Prismo had to guess, Scarab enjoyed this one.
“You surely lost the plot during the ball, the Knight would have never meddled in commoner affairs, even if she required the help of the Seamstress.” The blue beetle complained. “It completely interrupted the Knight's hunt.”
“Yeah, well she needed to meet the Seamstress somehow, what better way than a party?”
“Yeah, well. Maybe you just don’t understand her!” Scarab says in a confusing burst of emotion, before storming down the stairs
The “basement” of the cube, as Prismo would call it, would have been impressive if it was tended to on a regular basis. Space dust clung to the walls and the air felt stale. Clearly, neither mortals nor the god upstairs have been here any time recently.
The corridor Scarab was in now stretched and twisted around, seemingly endlessly. He'd walk, and walk and walk, and the moment he turned the entrance would be just behind him. He always found himself in the looping hall when he was lost in thought. Almost as if the room knew when his mind drifted. The familiar red hues were comforting, and the hall was just inconsistent enough that it took him a moment to even realize he had returned. He simply couldn’t get the Knight out of his mind.
The Knight was ruthless and effective. The best at her job. There was no doubt his position under the Queen was bought with blood. It truly was plaguing Scarab’s mind, why was this nonexistent character flooding his mind? And what would the knight do after he returned to her Queen.
Scarab continued pacing, thinking about future scenes, where the Knight returns home, and she is celebrated and rewarded for a task well done.