[ THIS IS ALL SO SWEET AND SPECIAL 😠PICKLES! CHARLTON!! i wish boothill could see how smart pickles is, but he can't read the title of that book. to boothill, the fact that this dog is reading (or looks like he's reading) in the first place confirms his intelligence. the most special doggo in the world... and he has a loving home to boot. mods please send pickles back home soon.
when pickles appears in the void, boothill isn't there to greet him, seeming to have vanished as soon as pickles stepped inside. ]
SCENE I [ first is the gust of cool wind from behind—not harsh, but strong enough to make one close their eyes. the sound of rustling leaves follows quickly behind it, then a running stream, then faraway birdsong.
blink and the view is suddenly and perfectly picturesque: a clearing by a healthy, freshwater creek. the air smells crisp and clean, refreshingly cool with every inhale. ancient trees stand stalwart as guardians around the periphery, leaning over the stream as it stretches into the distance, their branches stretching high overhead. the sun filters in through bright green leaves, and its light reflects in little white mirrors against the water. salmon swim as if floating in air, their images rippling as dragonflies and pond-skippers disturb the water's surface.
a velvet-smooth drone from a harmonica comes from the grassy patch nearby the stream. the source of the sound is a young man in the clearing, seated on a blanket. on closer inspection, one can see that it's boothill—though his name was something else at this point, when he was still made of flesh and blood. his skin in general is noticeably tanner, rough with scars around his arms. his hair is tied in a loose ponytail. his outfit is less flashy, more modest, more brown than black. a red bandana is tied around his neck.
not-boothill rolls a few more notes from the harmonica, eyes calm and closed, before he's suddenly interrupted by a small but jarring sound. he lowers his hands and smiles fondly at something in front of him.
a baby in soft clothes, likely no more than a year old, is on her belly on the blanket. for the second time, she slaps her little hand against a very small four-stringed guitar lying in front of her. boothill laughs. ]
Shucks. Should'a told me you wanted to lead, lil' one.
[ he sets down his harmonica and reaches to pull her into his lap. the baby eats her tiny fist as he lifts the tiny guitar for her to grasp. as soon as she takes it, she waves and bonks it harmlessly on his leg as he picks up his harmonica again. ]
All right now. I'll follow you, all right, Clem? [ he readjusts the guitar in her hand, facing it upwards, and immediately she starts slapping it again. his deep chuckles shake his shoulders. ] All right, all right...
[ it's a brief, fleeting, golden moment. the sounds of a perfect duo fade as the scene is swallowed again by blackness. ]
[ that's when pickles will realize that someone is standing still behind him—boothill again, only this time, he's exactly as pickles knows him to be—and they're back in front of barks & waffles.
boothil shakes his head and blinks hard, seeming to come to. ]
[ Pickles couldn't turn himself away from the memory. It's peaceful, calm, and there's Boothill in a familiar, yet not quite so appearance. How he'd love to sit next to them and enjoy the atmosphere... but then the memory fades. Pickles turns around to see Boothill as he is now. ]
[ boothill stares at pickles, hands held out in front of him. he slowly looks down and back up again as if something just vanished from his hands. and it sort of did.
he lowers his hands to his side. for the first time, he looks incredibly somber. many people here have called him a father. he's starting to believe it. ]
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when pickles appears in the void, boothill isn't there to greet him, seeming to have vanished as soon as pickles stepped inside. ]
SCENE I
[ first is the gust of cool wind from behind—not harsh, but strong enough to make one close their eyes. the sound of rustling leaves follows quickly behind it, then a running stream, then faraway birdsong.
blink and the view is suddenly and perfectly picturesque: a clearing by a healthy, freshwater creek. the air smells crisp and clean, refreshingly cool with every inhale. ancient trees stand stalwart as guardians around the periphery, leaning over the stream as it stretches into the distance, their branches stretching high overhead. the sun filters in through bright green leaves, and its light reflects in little white mirrors against the water. salmon swim as if floating in air, their images rippling as dragonflies and pond-skippers disturb the water's surface.
a velvet-smooth drone from a harmonica comes from the grassy patch nearby the stream. the source of the sound is a young man in the clearing, seated on a blanket. on closer inspection, one can see that it's boothill—though his name was something else at this point, when he was still made of flesh and blood. his skin in general is noticeably tanner, rough with scars around his arms. his hair is tied in a loose ponytail. his outfit is less flashy, more modest, more brown than black. a red bandana is tied around his neck.
not-boothill rolls a few more notes from the harmonica, eyes calm and closed, before he's suddenly interrupted by a small but jarring sound. he lowers his hands and smiles fondly at something in front of him.
a baby in soft clothes, likely no more than a year old, is on her belly on the blanket. for the second time, she slaps her little hand against a very small four-stringed guitar lying in front of her. boothill laughs. ]
Shucks. Should'a told me you wanted to lead, lil' one.
[ he sets down his harmonica and reaches to pull her into his lap. the baby eats her tiny fist as he lifts the tiny guitar for her to grasp. as soon as she takes it, she waves and bonks it harmlessly on his leg as he picks up his harmonica again. ]
All right now. I'll follow you, all right, Clem? [ he readjusts the guitar in her hand, facing it upwards, and immediately she starts slapping it again. his deep chuckles shake his shoulders. ] All right, all right...
[ it's a brief, fleeting, golden moment. the sounds of a perfect duo fade as the scene is swallowed again by blackness. ]
[ that's when pickles will realize that someone is standing still behind him—boothill again, only this time, he's exactly as pickles knows him to be—and they're back in front of barks & waffles.
boothil shakes his head and blinks hard, seeming to come to. ]
What in the forkin' fudge...?
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Woo...? Woof, woof.
[ The puppy says you are a daddy. ]
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he lowers his hands to his side. for the first time, he looks incredibly somber. many people here have called him a father. he's starting to believe it. ]
I was. Not no more.
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[ Pickles tilts his head.
The puppy apologizes, but hopes that you treasure this memory. ]
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I do. One of the best ones I got.
[ he reaches to pet pickles's head and rub his ears with both hands. ]
Bet you treasure yours too. That owner a'yours knew exactly what he got, huh? A special one. You can read, boy?
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[ Pickles looks a bit downtrodden at that.
The puppy says his favorite thing to do is read books. Regarding its owner, it feels... mixed feelings about him. ]
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Mixed? What d'you mean?
feel free to drop since it's been too long!
Woof, woof. Woof.
[ The puppy says it returned home, where its owner kicked him out violently and the citypeople all hated the puppy. ]
it's ok!! if you wanna handwave the rest we can too 🥺
then that comes out. at least boothill was already bracing himself for bad news, but this? happening to the goodest boy ever? ]
Pickles... what in the fudge happened?