Ghostchibi Sandbox Hub

welcome to hell! welcome to hell!!!

ghostchibi1 SCPodcast notes

ghostchibi3 backburner drafts

ghostchibi10 fanon>canon scp
ghostchibi11 001 proposal

ghostchibi2 EthCom Observers "canon" details
ghostchibi4 chat snips for mooniverse
ghostchibi5 Mooniverse - pt1
ghostchibi6 Mooniverse hub
ghostchibi7 war of attrition

Other tales:
ghostchibi14 Overanalysis Of Meaningless Patterns
ghostchibi12 IYRRT entry
ghostchibi8 positive relationship
ghostchibi9 clef/danse tale

ghostchibi13 Henri hub
ghostchibi15 BreachQuest stuff

rating: +2+x

Chibi Yamagusuku sits, typing away at his desktop; it's a slightly older model but that's fine, because this is a work computer and not a personal one that needs to be capable of running ten open internet browser tabs (one of them streaming video), two different chatting programs, a minimized video game, and possibly two text documents. What's on the screen of this computer though isn't relevant; maybe it's a psychological profile for an SCP they've been assigned to, or a personnel psychological evaluation of one of the many Foundation employees.

There's some music playing. Over from Chibi's phone plays some song or another, irrelevant to the goings-on of right now. It's probably something from one of the few albums she has, because Chibi isn't too well-versed in music. It's what happens when one stops driving a car and having the radio on, and Chibi hasn't driven a car on the regular since junior and senior year of high school, driving to and from school. Chibi scans the document and erases a few passages, unimportant to the task at hand.

"Quite a lot that's not important…"

Indeed, there is. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't quite mean much what exact document Chibi Yamagusuku is typing in at the moment, nor does the specific music being played from her phone, or what kind of phone it is (an iPhone 6, for the curious), or the fact that Chibi is wearing socks that are a different shade of black and not quite a pair except that they do look almost the same when one is rushing and yanks open the socks drawer at 8:02 am with the lights off and the curtains closed. Speaking of the time, Chibi glances at the clock; it's 9:49 am at the moment. This doesn't quite matter either, the specific hour and minute alignment of this moment.

The document, however, is exorbitantly long, and Chibi spins the scrolling wheel on his mouse with a flick of the middle finger. It makes a satisfying whirling noise, although the screen only scrolls a few pages and doesn't go flying down to the bottom.

"How long is this gonna go on?"

For as long as it will.

"Do you have any idea?"

Who knows?

"You're the one writing it."

This is true. But none of this does have any meaning unless given such; the lengthiness of the document serves to guide into this section, but the exact page number or word count has no such meaning.

"You're still talking in your narrator voice. You're no third-person narrator right now."

Am I not the same third-person narrator you are?



"What are you doing here, anyway? I'm a bit busy."

You're only as busy as is convenient for me; I might be bound by what readers find plausible or a reasonable suspended disbelief, but I only need to make you busy to fit my needs.

"I could absolutely just blank this document on my screen right now if I wanted to."

Sure, you could. You've always had that bit of power. But I need to write more for your sake. You know how things are. I'm driven by my need to write, and you're driven by whatever you say you want to do while I'm thinking about you. Stay away from that bit of characterization, no I said put that down you fuck never did work on you.

"Or any of the others."

Right. Ghost was always especially bad at that, too. But you're the author avatar, you're going to be a bit more bound to me than the others.

"Does that mean you'll be more amenable to not throwing me to the wolves?"

I don't intend to throw any of my characters to the wolves. You just have the unfortunate property of being me, just with all the modifications that come from being a Foundation junior psychologist.

"You don't like psychology anymore. Why did you never change that?"

Perhaps you wouldn't have lost interest in it.

"Hmm. Too much suspension of disbelief there, but sure, whatever."


We're straying from the original point. Like I said, you're the author avatar, and I'm always going to be a little more personally obliged to not go as wild with you as much as the others. It seems… self-destructive.

"Does this not count as 'go as wild?'"


"Do you like me?"

Much more than I like myself.

"That's a paradox."

It really isn't. Maybe it would be more accurate to say I envy you?

"That doesn't make much sense either."


"Yeah, hmm."

Was there something you wanted to ask of me? You don't come poking at me to write something like this. Despite your claims of busy-ness, you prompted this yourself.

"Can't you love yourself a little more?"

Excuse me?

"Okay, that joke failed. Sorry. Yourself as in me. I was being witty."

Insinuating that I don't really like you already?

"Just like- all of you. All of us. I know what you've got in store for us. And I know it makes for some good storytelling, and you need good storytelling for us to even stay here in the first place, but, y'know. You don't like constant pain and suffering in stories. You don't have to write all of that for everything you write to be successful. You're known for your self-indulgent writing too."

That's not the same thing.


The stories I write are about things that are entwined with misery in real life in ways that need to be engaged with. I have a specific skill set; my skills are useful in disentangling that misery, and I shouldn't avoid it. That real misery shouldn't be there. I should do something about it.

"Do you like it?"


"Then don't write about the misery, you stupid asshole. Everyone else has that covered. You've never really written misery anyway."

I know I don't. I don't write good misery.

"Gee, wonder why."

I don't do it without reason. There are things I like, but there are things I need to do. I have the ability to change things, and I should do so.

"I'm just saying," Chibi says, spinning around once in their rolling chair before catching himself on the desk and going back to typing something away on her keyboard. "People appreciate the nice things too. Who are you writing for, bro?"

The screen flashes for a moment, then blanks the text document entirely. Chibi pushes three keys, leaving a heart on the page.

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